Thanksgiving Morning

A cluster of dead leaves
left hanging on the maple tree
quivers like a vibrating bell.

White gasps of steam rise
from the house across the street,
where grown children
have come home
and one who never left
works on his car.

The dark funnel descends
from the sky and lifts
everything in its path—
the car, the couch,
the TV, the trowel, the sink,
the cows, and the people,
then batters and blends them,
says the article on tornadoes
in National Geographic
I read at breakfast.

The survivors stagger out,
grateful to be alive.

               april 15, 2015