Against the sky appear clouds,
Forming columns up to Heaven;
The angry yellowish-orange,
Bubbles out like warming leaven.
Against the skyline are homes,
Which block my view from the base;
I close my eyes to envision,
I am a part of a storm-tracker’s race.
Skimming the asphalt as I fly,
I feel the weather changing on my skin;
The hairs on my arms have lifted,
And I feel the prick of a cactus pin.
I am jarred back to my senses,
As I hear ducks quack in the pond;
The spraying fountain sounds peaceful,
As I view the fury stirring from beyond.
