Storm
The sky is hiding in a thick blanket of clouds
which reflects the glow of orange streetlamps,
artificial stars of the human night.
I stand alone in an alcove, sheltering myself from the storm
which fills the air with wind and water,
beneath a humming, crackling light.
The pavement is riddled by bullets of rain,
staccato taps in a steady rhythm
that echoes the pounding of my heartbeat.
The wind whips the glistening palm fronds
into patterns lit by garish incandescence
against the rain in the street.
Lightning flickers across the sky
and above me, the light sputters
in an answer of tamed electricity.
People scurry past, anxious
to be somewhere warm and dry,
out of the wild power now set free.
Then suddenly out of nowhere
an opossum appears, white fur streaked with gray
and wet from the merciless rain.
For a split second he hesitates
pink nose testing the charged air,
eyes darting again and again.
Then, as quickly as he came, he is gone
leaving nothing tangible behind,
not even footprints,
only a picture in my mind.
January 23, 2000