They do not produce much,
These "Box Elder County rain storms":
A gray-brown sky,
Streaks that might be rain,
Lightning, wind,
And dust.

Rising on the west bench,
Churning, whipping eastward,
Choking fields and farms
In a gritty haze and then
Briefly slamming our hills
Before splattering into Cache Valley:

An idiot's tale, "Full of sound
And fury, signifying nothing"
But a lapse
In summer's all too petty pace:
A strut, a fret,
"And then is heard no more."

07/25/2004

Author's Note: I too have seen it a thousand times, Dr. Hunsaker.

Posted on 07/26/2004
Copyright © 2024 Leonard M Hawkes