-This poem reflects on towering thunderheads at dusk, where the grandeur of high summer gathers into a moment of awe, stillness, and anticipation.
Along the western edge of light,
the clouds rise high in violet gray,
their towering forms hold fading gold,
where evening lingers on their rim.
The fields grow quiet under them,
the swallows turn and fly in arcs,
while every tree, and fence, and hill,
waits beneath their gathering shade.
No rain has reached the earth just yet,
no thunder crossed the darkening air,
only the hush before the voice,
the sky drawing one deeper breath.
So much of high summer stands here,
between its fullness and release,
the day surrendering to night,
beneath a cathedral built of storm.