The Storm

We rejoin the production
At act one
Scene three

The rotating washing line
Playing at a whirling dervish
Whipped into a trance-like state

The lone tree waving
In the relentlessly buffeting wind
With champion gusto and grace

The wind keening,
Alternating
Between a whisper
And an increasingly wild whistle

A crashing from the heavens
An unholy crescendo
A quiver and crack
From the clouds

An exclamation
From on high