Waiting for the Storm - Ruah Bull

 

The air sweet and tangy

reaches deep into lungs

as leaves shuffle 

like dancers waiting for the opening curtain

Squirrels scoot for one last sunflower seed

the birds not so courageous 

or foolish

There is movement in this kind of waiting

not just the rushed grab-

firewood, bread, gin-

but a restless poise 

as Spirit rushes across the roiling waters

All waiting for the cleanse

that will flood, often shatter,

and we pray renew

The land breathes

Nothing else smells like this