Where the Thunder Goes
A Golden Shovel after Something Wicked this Way Comes by Ray Bradbury
Kevin Kissane
Desert sand turns to glass where
zips of lightning land. It does
not trumpet a sound, but the
lapping of lyre-like thunder
holds still where the prairie dogs go,
and the rainstorm will sing when
wind rubs its paws clean on the glass. But it
only sounds til’ the last of the deluge dies
…
Fear takes bloom in the spots where
lightning shears through dry air. Does
it frighten you at all to know that the
thunder does not care? The thunder
will come and the thunder will go
when cloudbursts billow the sky, when
children pull blankets up over their eyes. It
scares what it dares, and the thunder never dies
