The wind dies, and the forest’s ragged sprawl
rights itself in a spell of calm. No sound
louder than dwindling dew’s snail-noiseless crawl,
than button-heavy acorns hitting ground.
A nuthatch prying pleats of oak bark loose
peppers my crackling quilt. Dreamy, I waken
as heaped in leaves as Rip Van Winkle, whose
rags bore the weight of twenty autumns shaken.
As I browse a folded paperback, a herd of
gray-bellied thought-clouds jostle, building volt
in a mind too blank blue to bear one word of…
—crack! One charged line ejects a soundless bolt!
My brain reels, fused and smoking! Seared with wonder,
I rise, electrified, and feel the thunder.
Carey Jobe is a retired attorney who most recently worked as a federal administrative law judge. Prior to starting his legal career, he was a classical student specializing in Latin and Greek literature. He served in the army for three years in Germany and has traveled widely. He attributes his love for writing poetry to drinking from the Castalian Spring at Delphi during a trip to Greece.