The trees bowed low,
Their leaves like upraised hairs
Showing their undersides,
With static charge uprisen.

The still air saturated
As if with nervous sweat—
Stifling one's breathing
And heightening the senses,
While its drowning heat
Tried to make one sleep.

In the land there's not a sound,
As every living beast
Has sensed the coming of the storm
And all their labors ceased.

-Anne B. Caitlin