i expected the thunder
of the woods
to have white tipped wings
and in the moss
where the rain is kept
i waited for a storm
the deep rumblings came
not from a bird
drumming its food drum
but from the belly of jet engines
one by one
cleared for landing
it wasn’t what i thought it would be
that paradise
but, oh, to be in that exit row
those people up there
the thunder makers
what would they think of me
damp in that ravine
waiting for woodpeckers
alone and silent
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Ben is a young farmer and big dreamer currently living and working on Vashon Island. Aside from his day job working with the doe eyed bovines at Kurtwood Farms, he is expanding his poetry portfolio. You might also find him slinging a camera around or hunched over a cluster of mycological specimens in Island Center Forest.
