The pipers droned to a stop
and I rolled my drum to silence
when the rain came blustering
over the treeline like a swarm
of electric wasps jittering madly
against the shelter’s tin roof
so overwhelming a piper struck up
a tune again but the pipe’s sound
was drowned in the howl around us
ancient sound eating ancient sound
until suddenly the storm whimpered away
in a second’s span it turned to drizzle
and then dried as the sun cut clouds
around the horizon and then
a rainbow arced up and doubled
not just across the sky but from
the cornpatch across the lot
like an otherworldly waterfall crashing
quietly among Indiana’s greenness
the colors rushing from and falling into
the glistening golden ears of corn.
Thanks to Flying Island, which published this poem in their recent issue.
Samuel T Franklin 