The Raven sways in the wind at the very top of the pine.
A lone black pennant. An incense signalling to those who watch that a storm imminent.
The weak and bow aisle the saplings fold and snap.
We close the barn doors and soothe the stalled horses with whispers in hands.
A crack of thunder sends a shutter through them. Passes into us.
We stand together. Grounded. All legs trembling.