The Coming Storm

If you watch for the signs of the animals
You'll see them, quivering, eyes to the sky
Turning to their burrows, turning to their dens
In a darkening afternoon - listen
As a hoof stomps nervously, and to the grasses rustling
As the herds swing through narrow canyons
To places more familiar

And men also, and women
Whose worlds are at the same time more wide
And more narrow than those of animals
Some of them are also picking up their faces
To the tired sky, out of their common dream
To the greying horizon where night now stands in
The core of midday - so in silent places

Where antennae quiver you can hear a dark haired
Woman lean to speak with an angular man

She says to him : "there is a storm coming"
He, nodding, saying nothing

While they turn for shelter.