The Storm Comes Poem by Greg Davidson

Fleeing before its wrath,
Leaves sprint across my path
Or scurry blindly between my feet,
Then off to run some Pamplona street,
Racing old discarded wrappings
Like panicked elfin gymnasts
Running, tumbling, spinning,
While an unseen lepidopterist, without name,
Pins one to a picket frame.

As from a thousand cats, shrieks
Call legioned archers from western peaks,
Well armed behind a charcoaled veil,
With a million icy darts to assail.
Once greeting grasses cower,
And trees, not skyward reaching,
But bowed, lashed, afraid.
And I, coat cinched, hat pressed to my head,
Hasten to the comfort of my bed.