Beneath Bruised Skies

Beneath Bruised Skies The wind, a ghost with an unseen hand, Whips grit and dust across the Oklahoma land. It carries the smell of ozone, sharp and cold, A story whispered, ancient, bold. You feel its tug, a constant plea, A playful push, then suddenly, A heavy cloak of pressure drops, As every buzzing insect stops. The sky turns bruised, a sickly green, A painted canvas, rarely seen. The air grows thick, a metal taste Of fear, a moment held in haste. Then distant rumble, low and deep, Like giants stirring from their sleep. The sound of sirens, a mournful wail, As funnel clouds begin to sail. A twisting finger, dark and grand, Tearing through the heart of the land. Houses splinter, timber flies, Beneath the terror in the skies. Yet, in the wake, a silence falls, Broken by the lone bird's calls. A strange calm follows, soft and low, As if the earth begins to glow. And here's the truth, etched in the scars: Oklahoma, beneath these stars, Learns resilience from the gale, A strength that tells a timeless tale. For every structure ripped and torn, A deeper bond is bravely born. The wind may rage, the sky may weep, But hope and spirit, here, run deep. It's not just terror, wild and free, But a testament to what we can be.