Squall Line at Sixty-Five

Sloshing through sudden bogs,
we leave the trees balled up in the pickup
and retreat to the porch swing,
 
slinging holy water from our hats.
By tonight, the cloudburst will be gone,
sand almost a crust by dawn.
 
Two days, even the holes we dug will drain,
foam on the bottom ready for roots.
Now, pears in the pickup tilt
 
and bend in the wind, and thunder booms.
Cows in the pasture wait, wet muzzles
turned to the wind, eyes almost closed.
 
The horses are probably downwind by the barn,
hogs clean at last, flicking their snouts
and chomping as if they’ll never eat again.
 
Rocking, we watch the storm and wonder
if grandchildren nine hundred miles away are home
from school, if maybe they’ll call tomorrow.