Tension ignites the charged atmosphere
as sky oxidizes to gunmetal gray—
obscuring horizon where clouds meet the range...
a deep thrum advances, its levies unclear;
an ominous rumble, a rampant exchange.
Observed on the cloud-line a bright ricochet…
another, then strong scent of sulfur appears;
closer now, tremors are felt on the ground…
What is this insurgent and vapid display;
this building percussion, crescendo of sound—
conducted in
part by some crazed cannoneer,
a maestro or madman—we’ve yet to decide.
The cymbals are crashing, the timpani rolls…
and yet the true threat hasn’t made itself clear—
just who will remain when campaign exacts tolls?
For now we stand strong while the forces collide.
Way off in the distance we watch the clouds swarm
the thunder approaches just over the rise…
with feet on the ground, trust our stance justified
soon we will know if the gods empathize.
One ear-piercing volley and we are forewarned;
we
rotate to face the oncoming storm.
© Ginny Brannan 2014
© Ginny Brannan 2014
Thunderstorm stock by Apothicbeauty on deviantART Original image by Apothicbeauty, overlaid with author's images from Gettysburg reenactments. |