Wednesday, 14 March 2018


by Marty Eberhardt

It’s not rain, it’s
Pummeling the junipers,
And now the berries
Fly across my path.
Icy-blue berries and
Which is which?
Both make me stumble.
Both glow
In the thunderous light
Of late summer gone rogue.
The balls land loud
On my nylon hood,
Bounce off my ungloved hands
Seed cones and ice, together:
They catch a little light
From the sun
As it jockeys for space
With the clouds
Racing together
To capture the sky.

A berry under a pinyon
Is bluest of all;
Impossibly blue.
It’s plastic.
I pocket it.

I could
Bemoan the desecration
Of this wild and chilly moment;
Denounce the oil
That beckons a child
With bright blue beads
That do not melt
Or grow into fine old trees.
I could
That my grandchildren
Will find more beads than berries
In their wild walks.
I could
And I’ve a good mind to.

Or I could
Feel thunder rumble my feet
Smell the sharp crack
Of lightning closer
Than I expected.
I will
Run through the blue seedstorm,
The hailwind.
Through the shaking shrubs,
The spinning leaves.
A moment ago,
I pondered
With oh-so-human logic.
Now, like a bird
Diving for the deep branches,
Like a leaf carried
Rock to rock
Down the arroyo,
I am
Routed by rain.

* * * * *

“Bluestorm” was first published in The Wilderness House Literary Review.

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