Off to the north, on the mossy, shady side
of the planet, storms brew—churn with wet
energy stirred by gods yearning for the flesh,
or so I imagine in the wider ranges
of possibility, offering what science cannot
seem to find: practical solace for an open mind.
Ruled by the light, they have no clocks to punch,
no place especially to be except in the pulsing
heart of life, in the action they cannot feel
without flesh. We stay on their good side,
think positively as they dash from tree
to leafless tree, work and wait for a cloudy day.