Heavy Weather
DS Maolalai

sky blown brown.
burned like a stovetop
by western storms. I take a breath
and a glass of water
and step outside, enjoying the crispness
of the evening
and the scratched reminders
of approaching frost. it comes like this sometimes,
the air before thunder—a world
gone hard, glassy
and sharp as sticks. west, over houses,
I watch as far clouds
burst—it will be minutes
before they hit us down here. I finish the water
in whipping wind
and grab at the clothesline, drag in sheets
like a yachtsman
flapping at sails. my shirts
fling furious
and fight as if someone
were wearing them. I bundle them in,
forgetting my glass by the door. it’s only an hour later
when I reemerge
to sunlight. raindrops everywhere reflect on the grass
and the clothesline
is shining, burning, and improving
the general mood. the glass
is full of raindrops. big, fat
raindrops, like a bucket
of struggling