The wind picks up
dead leaves, then dies
and that's the whole season
for you, if fall goes well.
If all goes well the ice will
wait a week, maybe more,
but then the electricity's gone
from the sky, boom
goes the transformer
and you wanted thunder.
Street gutters, you will soon
relate: gunked up, runny,
and where does it all go?
Where does it come from,
this rotting mess passing
through and over and gone?
Tires slow before the light,
slurry shot up like
low, hissing firecrackers.
