“Whenever a thunder storm was coming, I felt happy, as                  though somebody were coming to visit me.” -Black Elk

Under the dogwood
a tiny leaf is stirring, in it the voice
of a storm.  It has to begin somewhere,
like a baby.

There were summers
before fences,
before sadness came,
when the blue

of the sky was in our faces, all over
our hands, when the sky broke its heart
just behind the house
over Mt. Logan, and it rained a fine light

on the whole neighborhood
and I thought I could fly.
Like when some storm cloud gets caught
in an abandoned barn

somewhere in Montana
and stays there
and sings. 
All things can fly, only some remember how.

That’s the trouble with memory.
When storms come, more remember.  The wind
reminds the oaks
near the garage, the scattered garbage

in the gutter, one or two lost souls
out walking.  At least once
I’m sure I flew
to the top of Mt. Logan. I was smiling
and refused to come down.