prairie sky

the horizon shifts its hue and shape constantly while the winds blowing from the west scream over the coulees; the grass beat down, our house shudders.
the radio warns: funnels touching down and i imagine dorothy or a trailer ouse, not rooted to the ground and turning and sailing-spinning upwards where gravity reversed, cars or tree limbs, shoes, shopping bags, cats or rocking chairs come to rest in umfamiliar places.
lighting lumbers in a circle around us. localized storms watched from three kilometers away, while we sit in dusk's tilted sunlight, a summer's evening on the farm, while the other side of the river is cloaked: the sky is wine-dark, the clouds pour down, the horses run, dogs shake, cattle moan.
and when it rains, the silty mud oozes out of the river valley, ochre slicks feet slide. cottonwoods drink it up and then count the rising inches between snowmelt and deluge.