The Raven sways in the wind at the very top of the pine.

A lone black pennant. An incense signalling to those who watch that a storm imminent.

The weak and bow aisle the saplings fold and snap.

We close the barn doors and soothe the stalled horses with whispers in hands.

A crack of thunder sends a shutter through them. Passes into us.

We stand together. Grounded. All legs trembling.