11th Hour
I love the sound of the wind through the leaves
As a summer storm rolls in at the 11th hour
The windows are open and I can feel the breeze pass over my sore shoulders and tired face
I breathe deep, the cool Midwest breeze; Westerly is its name
I am reminded of storms gone by, as I so often am at the end of summer
As the great giant’s footsteps are heard rumbling across the plains
Th pitter-patter of thousands of thousands tumble across my ears
I repress the urgent need to feel the drops kiss my skin, instead turning toward my bed
I lay awake and listen
Listen
If all nights could be this sweet
