Prairie Poetry   
  Waiting, September

A level 4 tornado
heading our way
a crow calls and calls
crickets dying shill for fall
in the sullen air
my husband's silent
I thought I'd entered
stillness but last night
I dreamt of the underground
crowded and hectic
I was lost I was late
I didn't know what my mission was
or which rushing passengers
might have a message
one said you need to go to the next level
but couldn't tell me how

  Debra Kaufman
  Copyright © 2004 Debra Kaufman
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