Five-minute storm

The sky knows more than we do,
and it always did.

As tier three creeps closer
stormclouds queue over the marsh,
a fire’s set and for five minutes
arrowed droplets dance in Velvia haze.

The moon tries to come up
while light peels back, laserburned
by the taproot of a rainbow:
more than we deserve and yet not enough.

Five-minute storm, one last word,
then moonrise and peace.

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