Locked wheels scraped on gravel shoulder
and skidded to a sudden stop.
Clouds of dust billowed all around,
and a hard rebound of door on leg
tore flapping trousers--
no protection for a tender shin.
The man’s wife followed as best she could,
her skirt a concave sail,
her arms an awkward cradle
that almost dropped the babe within.
Golden fields of wheat rose and fell in the wind
and sometimes flattened before a sudden gale.
A broom of rain swept ever nearer,
and lightning danced to thunderous applause.
A thin black funnel hung in distant view
and puffed from whirlwind tip
a cloud of dust and dark debris.
Man and wife stood transfixed,
awed by the tempest’s power.
The child squirmed and kicked,
but somehow slept in weathered arms.
Squashed flat to earth like a punctured ball,
the sun spread laggard rays beneath the storm.
In this last light the infant’s hair flamed radiant white,
angelic halo in the gathering night.
Man and wife = The Founders
Tornado = Donald Trump
Child = Joe Biden
(other, more spiritual interpretations are possible)
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