Bluestorm

by Marty Eberhardt

It’s not rain, it’s

Hail

Pummeling the junipers,

And now the berries

Fly across my path.

Icy-blue berries and

Hailstones;

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

Despair

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.