When the storm comes in
a bird sits on a limb in the
suddenly solidly still

humid air. I watch
weather radar, listening
to a child scream nearby–
is it joy or fear?

I raise a glass of ale
brought to me
all the way from London.

I read the storm
warnings with interest,
large hail; damaging winds . . .

Is this another storm
that I will weather?
Sometimes yes;
sometimes no;
prognosis: probable.

I raise a glass of ale
all the way from London.

It’s always storming somewhere.
There’s always a glass
of ale somewhere.

And the screaming.
And the screaming.

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