I’m no storm chaser, but I saw
the quiet where workers turn jobless,
where cyclones undress into hurricanes,
and air breathes between crushed cherry
blossoms inside a tightrope walker’s fist.
Leaning out the window
with a cig and a cup of grapefruit juice
I taste smoke in the wind
carried from wandering oil rigs.
“Looks like rain” my wife said.
It’s looked like rain for weeks,
but not a lick of water has bothered
to whet the petunias hanging on the window.