The remains of the day
stain a quarrelous sky.
Bales of barley and hay
languish, kindling dry.

Soon, a thunderous cloud —
all it needs is a spark —
rumbles, boastful, and proud,
sending sparrow and lark

into spiralous swarms
as they search for escape
from the mother of storms,
and I stand, mouth agape…

Will a purply arch
crash to strike me at last?
April leaves on the march.
May too, soon becomes past.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini