The Shadow Of A tornado

Tornados form in the distance,    products of wild imaginations    on rolling highways.  Wisps    of n*****s barely swirling    from green clouds turning above    God´s country in opposite directions    with unspoken understanding that    the plains are there only in preparation    for gloomy sunlit Kansas desert doldrums,    and the people on this tapestry blanket    only do his bidding here.       Screaming yelling kicking    in the absolute silence of corn fields    connected by straight lines dashed arbitrarily    in the great empty vastness.    Interstates, highways, country roads    marked with letters numbers    and towns unmoved with the strings    of quaint dignified sleep    with something lost in the madness    of cities who have failed    in their search for the authentic.       Symbols, important things.    Eagles in the sky encompassing everything,    sometimes lifeless on the asphalt.    Vultures salivating above rotted corpses,    floating over South Dakota waterfalls    that have always been there.    The moons burning in infinite space    guiding us in the darkness    from Des Moines to Eldon.    Harvest moons eating the stars    like red giants,    high blue ones atop    the otherwise unknown    in search of the spontaneous    betrayed by great horizons.    Small wood houses standing upright    against dismissive winds running away east    past the decay of another time eyeballing    underneath shallow skin with gothic dignity.       Deep into the night the world turns slowly,    change is just euphemism for how quickly    tommmorrow chooses to forget and ignore.