In the last days of August
black storm clouds,
gathering in the southern distance
          surge --- 
the rounded humps and short horns
of stampeding bison,
they purple the slate blue
          like an angry  bruise.

Lightning,
buried in black, only moments ago,
leaps to earth
          burning the coming dusk, white
before disappearing,
under the lyrics of Hoyt Axton’s 
         “Flash of Fire”
as my Jeep hurtles south from Atoka,
through the storm.

This is war,
and summer should never surrender
too quietly
          never fold itself neatly into fall.

No...
bring me this crashing thunder,
this rumbling herd of buffalo from days gone by
          let lightning split the oak
                    hailstones pelt the ground
and rain paint the air black with rage and fury.
Let the sky howl
and darken with days
growing shorter and time winding down.