a storm’s protest

where thunder bolted
honey combs

crawled across our
northern region

pulling trees & dust

making dead-man’s
steeples

along its straight way

low-pressure seiche

antiquated scripture

people jumped on fords
while blue and jet matters

a breath of fresh air
no one can breathe

seiche and fetch
fo’c’sle tides

the edmund fitzgerald

a storm went
a storm stayed

a storm cried
more, more, more

and the weather didn’t think
this is all it could do

it just did what
it had to, it happened.

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