on windy plains

"storm's coming," he said
to the dark western sky
and saw her head nod
from the corner of his eye
"might be a big one,
though i've seen them all.
one never can tell
on the eve of each fall."
he thought how her hair
danced in the wind
he thought of its feel
and quietly grinned.
"remember that one time,"
he mused out aloud,
"when we heard the thunder
and saw that one cloud?
how the funnel formed fast
right down to the ground
and you looked at me
with nothing around?
we cowered in that ditch
arms clasped round and tight
until the storm cleared,
my what a fright!"
he paused for a moment
then finally turned
to the red rocking chair
as the setting sun burned.
half-expecting a speech
she never lacked words
but the chair just rocked on
all he heard were the birds.
"storm's coming," he whispered
as a tears stained his cheek
"you're not here to hold
and i'm growing weak."