Storm over the field

Carved into the side of the day,
something shaped like a woman
yet moving like a river
crosses his fields of billowing grasses
and rumbling bees.
They await some moment
that feels inevitable, as sure as
sunset at the end of the carnival
and as full as the apple tree
just before summer’s end.
Her hips push the clouds
further west while her laugh
makes it rain in the next town.
He holds steady at the edge
of the porch, scanning the horizon
for the gathering storm.
They both imagine their hands
full of each other as they laugh
amid the harvest.