in tribal circles
it has long been known
that at the tail end
of crescendo
tension breaks.
their drummers accent
on the first
and fade the fourth,
repeating steps
to make the shawl bells
glance
electrified
as pre-storm calm.
a flash of tongue,
the fire and lightening
intertwining
embers
from evaporated throats,
the brush and scrubland.
then when monoliths
of clouds implode
they say,
“we’ve been them,
it was always to be so.”
hands held skyward,
cupping the relief of rain
in breathlessness,
the way
their sweat pours out
and seeds the soil.
