Storm-gust knocks hard
on my bedroom window,
with its heavy fist jolts
the whole rock-solid house,
then bolts around the corner,
charges out over the woods,
tousling the hair of myrtles,
jostling the spruce’s arms,
with a great whoosh
swerves out of earshot,
a head of steam, a ball of fire,
an icy comet with terrifying face,
with bulging bloodshot eyes
and leering teeth, and I,
in my box of light, flail
for my pen, having survived
fifty years of history’s storms,
at the storm’s bidding
take careful notes.

- Rick Clark