we tramp around
parking lots,
our mawing mouths
chewing in the thick
hot air.

clouds take congress
overhead but nothing comes.

our clenched fists
wave up in anger
at an insulant sky,
but a deluge
never comes.

other clouds gather
and we eye them with suspicion.
the noise of thunder
begins to call out.
four riders appear
just before the storm.

sharpen your sabers,
brothers and sisters,
sharpen them now.

November’s coming.