The dogs have barked
the usual warning:
earthquake, eclipse, or thunder.
Still when the storm hits
I am not ready, suddenly
afraid of this growing dark.
Finding myself between
wind and water, I am
wheeling crazy as a storm petrel,
circling again and again
the rock in the river.
The squall pulls east, then west,
until the moon is lost.
When the trees test their roots,
I ask the same question—
whether to hold fast or let go.
—from Rattle #8, Winter 1997
Leslie Clason: “An Oregon poet, I spend my days writing, supporting local education campaigns, and exploring the world with my small son Zane.”