And all afternoon the great dirt rose
in the east and rolled in,
first a stain, then a plume,
and all afternoon the lake grew darker:
Carp flashed and disappeared,
reeds shifted with a mass
of unseen creatures. And all afternoon
the city held its breath, knowing
sunset would be a gamble, sensing
the great dirt would be a blanket.
Now a sliver of blue
disappears in the west, the great dirt
now the only sky, and in the air
thunder’s first cardiac rumble, and in the lake
the carp and the dark creatures creep further from sight.
All the lake’s birds scatter like crockery
and fat drops tumble at massive velocities.
Thunder grows imminent
and everything is made of edges.
Sam Byfield is a 24 year old Australian currently residing in China, where he is teaching English, and learning Chinese and patience. He is an Assistant Editor at Lily Lit Review, and an Administrator at The Critical Poet.