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Bad Weather

William Ogden Haynes

In the evening before the storm,
the river has already broken russet,

murmuring its mud-roiled ballad as the
water flows through the village in

an endless stream. The stars are
sleeping now, obscured by drizzle

and the reflection of pale street lamps
on the boulevard. Townspeople run

through the light rain to get home
before the storm hits. And behind

shadowy doorways, supper is over, dishes
are washed and plates are nestled in kitchen

cabinets. Now, the shopkeepers are upstairs
in their beds toying with fitful sleep.

Unlaced boots lie on the floor, shirts
and trousers are draped over chairbacks

and dark clocks tick like metronomes.
And with the first blinding flash of

lightning through the window, the
haberdasher begins to count the seconds,

only five until a deafening thunder clap
resounds through the town. The storm

has arrived, and his wife turns sleepily
toward him in bed and puts her arms

around his waist. And in the cradle, their
baby begins to cry and reach out even

though he is still asleep. Tomorrow, thinks
the shopkeeper, will be a good day to sell hats.

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