Ceraunia

About antiquarians, the early archaeologists and their naive assumption regarding stone tools.

Is there any way to describe the nitrogen bursting

from the heavens than as vertebrae.

Dis-articulated but continuous in one jagged streak. 

Reaching down from something so alive with energy

that it goes crackle, hiss

                                       boom.

It hides its mystery safely inside boney fingers

and flashes of light are glimpsed through the gaps.

Maybe it is the Northmen’s Gods, striking down

in anger.  Maybe it is a demonstration of their power:

behave as we are watching.  Maybe it is angels

bowling a strike, as my grandpa used to say. 

Maybe it is just the tinder box of nature so sweet blueberries

can grow in ashes.  Maybe it is Mother Nature

in one of her moods as us women

always are.  Maybe its offspring ceraunia are truly magical,

not carved with the sweat of men whose thoughts

are as ancient as their bones. 

The alchemists collect the offspring,

these new bearers unaware that a baby red-wing blackbird

cannot save its mother from a hawk.