Contributor: Cynthia Pitman

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It’s coming. I know.
The wind chimes warn me.
No rain. Not yet.
Only the growing wind,
bending branches.
A few straggling strips of bark
dance down the street,
a quick dance, a two-step,
marked with short stops.
A stick or two of spindly
dry limbs drag behind
at a slower clip,
keeping low to the ground.
Slate-gray shadows billow and follow them,
footprints of the clouds.
Soon, soon, they will thicken,
gathering ferocity from the electricity
that sparks the sky.
Then the burgeoning raindrops
will begin to plop plop plop,
pocking the shadows
that swell with menace.
It’s coming.
It’s coming.
I know.
The wind chimes toll.
They toll for me.


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I'm a retired English teacher from Orlando. I have had or will have poetry and fiction published in Right Hand Pointing, Literary Yard, Amethyst Review, Saw Palm, and others.