CANTO 76 Waiting for thunder

 

Waiting for thunder that might never come

or there’s a rumble so thin you can barely pick it out

from the plainsong of mosquitos or the interstate that hums

like the background radiation all over the sky.

You struggled from the dreamscape that seemed clear enough

when you were in it, to the fitful stills

of woods thrown on the limp slope of the tent.

They call it heat lightning, Dad used to say.

Just as you tremble remembering his dark

there’s light and shadow, and dark again.

He kept shifting the rifle from one hand

to the other. You ask the same question

and then you ask it all.

Now the sky clears its throat.

After the flash

it gets dark so fast

who can blame you for wanting an explanation?

Damage already done, or

something new begun—soon

you’ll hear about it.

Who knows if all that noise is the truth?

You’d rather sleep than hear the report.

But sometimes you get interested.

The closer the storm

the sooner you get that rolling rhetoric.

Less time to think for yourself.

But when fire and word

coincide:

most clear. Most dangerous.