Just a groovin' little line of bass,
rushing wind through eaves and cracks...
God's blowin' on the harp tonight
(watch this train roll down the tracks...)
Raphael picks out the lead,
bending branches in the trees.
Cymbals too, are keeping time
on rusty old forgotten chime--
only sound I ever heard them make.
It's pretty, when transformers blow--
sparks of blue and then green flare.
A ritual of lighting lamps
to meet the eyes of silent stare.
Windows breathe at times like these--
glass bends in frames made loose.
Sheets of rain--slanted--pounding--
cease suddenly, as if on cue.
It comes in waves, labor pains,
each contraction less forgiving...
and always echo of the thought--
"what about The River?"
In Mother Nature's blender, now,
at Elements command--
when comes that THING
that only Silence understands...
--Unbolt the door
so we'll feel more,
for there within the eye of storm