Storm On Hunter Hill Poem by Steven Federle

Pure line
slopes skyward

massive, dry,
creased clusters
cast-rock,
hard shale,

till crevasses,
small streams, fill with rain,
increase to flash-flood
greedy hands
grab pebbles, haul branches,
crashing to the road
below.

The rain wants it all down,
to sink it into the sea,
level proud mountains,
make all things
equal,

but the rising line flows
to a distant ridge
where dark oaks
hold out
for hard, blue
day.