The Birthplace of Tornadoes

Storms are brazen, often rude, Lighting the sky with invectives Of white-blue light terrible. The rains carp the submissive Ground wearing it so slowly Down into curves, mud. The thunder stomps through Heaven’s empty rooms above. It knows the children tremble Beneath, conjuring punishments Through tall silken crowns Where venomous rodents erupt. In boredom, the storm sulks Away. In time, The rodents and children trade places.