Swift

Rumblings

A poem of a cowboy, lost and alone in the rain



Hat tugged down, rope pulled tight,
through brook and creek, clouded eyesight.
Trice of light, screams like a mourner,
the squall corrals, and gives no quarter.

Trees dance, leaves out, arching east,
grass flat like carpet, blades are creased.
Weeds twist off, then dance like devils,
Mistral gusts pelt hard, then levels.

Boots sink in, a muddy plash,
drizzled mist begins to thrash.
Wet leather wafts into the air,
rolling down his face, not rain, a tear.

Fall on the ground, fingers dig in,
the soil covers broken skin.
Pounding the ground like a drum,
his pain is less when his arms are numb.

Clouds open up and start to pour,
the breaking heart he can't endure.
The droplets mix in with the pain,
his eyes look up, "I am the rain."

© 2016 Peter Noah Thomas ~ All Rights Reserved

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