Tornado Watch

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The season waits in the bathroom, clutching

pillows, a blanket,

 

the serious tone of the weatherman

waiting for the worst.

 

Afternoon clouds are night. Young willows give

up and bend, waiting to snap.

 

Listen for the freight train in the funnel. They say

it’ll be over before it can ponder the damage.

 

But the waiting room seems eternal.

 

 

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