How to Tell When Rain is Coming

The trees know first -
leaves rolling palm up to catch the impending drops.
All along the county roads
the tree folk wait, arms outstretched in silence;
keeping their vigil for the thunder beings.
Then the wind begins,
turning wheat fields into frothy seas
and making the goldenrod bow to its supremacy.
Robins are silent,
squirrels run to their trees.
I sit on the edge of my porch:
a concrete slab,
my legs dangling over the side into the
black-eyed susans, violets and flox.
In the western sky I see them:
dark clouds rolling toward me like
so many prancing black horses -
lightening in their eyes,
rain in their manes,
thunder in their hooves,
cyclones flaring out of their nostrils.
I raise my arms and close my eyes as the
first icy drops hit my cheeks.  What joy -
to be visited by the Thunder tribe.
I can hear their chief, a mighty stallion,
shrieking above the wind:
"Blessings on you,
little sister of the Hoosier prairie."