What sleeps beyond the mountain
we do not know, we hear only the rumble.
Call it thunder, call it drums. It is everywhere.
And in the interval the air is static, the sky
lower when a flash seems to rise from the valley.
Call it natural, heat compressing. Say it is
the emptying of cannons, say it is five-hundred-
pound bombs dropped, homes and bridges
beyond the mountain turned into red lanterns.
Who watches the weather? Who watches the war?