The Storm
Roiling clouds obliterate starlight
and darkness settles in like an ancient creature,
thick shadow limbs stretching out
beneath the trees, where deer, lizards, and spiders
take shelter together against the rain.
Out on the porch, my hair tangles
as it beats about my head in wind set free.
Drafts run rampant, knock leaves from their branches,
play peekaboo with my nightgown hem.
Rain plummets, churning the yard
into soup, a great mass of mud
from which earth worms emerge
to inch their way in the wet to new homes.
It would be true night, black as pitch,
if not for the constant electric glow
of humanity's combat against the void,
the absence of what is known that crouches
in the cool, conspiring dark. Thunder
drums my chest and rattles the windows,
then the sky is ripped in two by the perfect
zig-zag of neon light, so bright it hurts my eyes,
so close the hair stands rigid on my arms,
Zeus reminding us how insignificant
are our technological accoutrements. Humbled,
I take the hint and retreat inside
to huddle and hide under blankets.
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Note: This poem was written in response to the prompt, "The story of a Black Sky," from @Ferretlp. I don't know if this is what you were hoping for, but it's what came out.