Morning Thunder

By Peter Gutiérrez

not yet having reached full light, dawn
surrenders, i’ll sit this one out,
don’t mind me, winded, clouded over
and over, until the first raindrops land,
shyly, but they’ve got feet in the door
now–

basso profundo like heaven’s throaty cry
upon waking, startling the larks and robins
from their songs, then a note or two as
addenda stagger out in small defiance
until a blast chord from above strikes
them down to no more than accompaniment
on the branch;
it falls hard now, a single soft corkscrew
to the chest, its brothers soon arriving,
hungry
from the wait, as a tower of cold lands
upon shoulders, chills from the lungs out;
caught unaware,
squirrels leap, white-breasted, wet-footed,
as if in play, as if in fear: it’s the same leap.
here, pressed to the window,
all views are identical, colors gone to stone,
puddles everywhere growing up fast,
and any natural music has stopped
in its tracks–

like a round of clotted firecrackers, the next one
sounds, sloppy and powerful, as if the neighbors
in their attics were throwing careless parties;
we know this will all pass in moments, will be
someone else’s problem, someone else’s
wonder
when I’ll lunge into the next minute, the next hour,
take my hand and let’s charge forward
while the sky bears down on us, we can’t help
blessing it, this sense of play, this sense of fear:
it’s the same leap

Peter Gutiérrez has been writing and publishing poetry for more years than he cares to admit. Additionally he has written comics, criticism, nonfiction books, and short stories professionally. He lives in New Jersey.