by John Grey
The air turned green,
like the sky was sick and about to throw up.
And then we saw the twister in the distance,
a giant spiral in a sea of rain
worming its way across the fields.
We huddled in the cellar
as it swirled closer and closer to the house
but then, at the last minute,
it whorled to the left
as if a neighbor’s barn had caught its eye.
Parents breathed out in relief,
a great rush of familial oxygen
that almost lifted the roof.
We kids hid our disappointment.
We could have flown over the town,
the wheat, the forest.
Later, we walked the streets
of weather’s wake, reveling in
mangled trees, a flattened house,
an upturned trailer.
Rumor had it that a cow was found
wedged into the fork of a tall oak.
Damn cow!
That place was ours for the taking.
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