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The first text warning that the approaching storm
Is nothing like we’ve ever experienced before
Is dismissed as it will surely lose steam
Before it reaches us, 
Two hundred miles to the east.

Soon more texts, closer to home, 
Friends warning of homes and barnes destroyed,
Cars and semis overturned,
Fields flattened.

What is happening?
Midwest storms don’t pick up speed and fury
Like the one we’re experiencing, not like this.
The winds roar and sirens wail,
And I convince my mother whom I am visiting
That we should retreat to the basement.

Soon the windows shake and the house creaks
And trees bend to the ground as though
Bowing down to a mighty storm-shaker.
We jump as a tree falls right outside our window to the world,
And the winds continue to howl and we stare silently at each other
In fear, not comprehending what is happening.

It seems to go on forever, and we cower in the corner,
Listening to ravaging of property and land continue 
Until finally there is silence, stillness.
We slowly retreat from the basement and timidly peer out the windows to witness
Complete destruction: trees twisted, roofs missing, signs of a tornado,
Yet not a tornado.

This was a derecho--a what?
A land hurricane, the things people have weeks to prepare for on the coast, 
Attacking without warning, leaving Iowans shell-shocked. 

8.7.2021
Imaginism Poetry Contest
Emile Pinet

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