God stays happy by not holding
Onto heavy thoughts.
Thirty minutes into snarled traffic on I-81.
Twenty feet above us. One white egret.
A flag across the dark gray sky.
A dozen swallows scry the squeezed space
Between roof and rain clouds.
Later, we walked up the street
To see fireworks rise, explode,
Penetrate into clouds which shimmered
For a moment like they’d been told
A secret they weren’t ready to tell.
The lightning shot through the house
Like the bead on the line on the monitor
Of a flatlining patient. In through the back porch’s
Sliding glass window and out the glass front door.
A moment later the house shook with sound,
Twice, as if God had a sudden thought
Too heavy to hold onto, then another.