Thunder comes early and thick, like a theory
vague and wandering, world-weary, resisting
rain. So we sleep to the sound of sky
long past daylight, two dogs dreaming,
and wake to that darkness weather can wring.
Downstairs, the children flip channels, all
friendly delirium. You rally a fire while I
absently browse for eggs, or butter—
secretly loving my limits when, late-week,
empty or near-empty shelves force enterprise;
leftovers rouse into latkes, or bread
pudding, or sugar pies. Soon we’ll paddle
to the table, a coterie of cause-and-effect:
our son nearly managing, pre-methylphenidate,
the brilliant body into which he was born
six weeks early, like a silverfish, spellbound,
his red lips smiling and raw with worry;
our daughter, a kind of kindling, insists
on tap shoes; attempts to towel-whip; torments
yet again the puppy confined, for her peace,
while in heat. You and I, some lesson in yielding.
Outside, the hard rain heaves and drives.
The orchard, warily organized, brightens.
Sometimes a car quakes by, but carefully;
at the curb, turkeys pause and pace, then tighten.