The wind in the grass
is a relay race,
with cloud shadows
playing across each face.
Each blade in waves overtaken
by flying bands bright and dim
overhead, all marshalling
forth from the sky's dark half,
as the storm way over there
drags in.
Still a good way off, well
these sports and games
are heralds with streaming
banners
proclaimed and directed
from trumpets
aloft, and the distant
booms
still too far to hear!
But the whole pageant tells
of it drawing near.
"It will miss us," I scoff
"just a bit to the South,"
but I secretly know
there's a lie in my mouth.
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