Small

Dusk in the hammock
turned toward the river

thinking of you,
I shiver

I am child small, smell the approach of rain
thunder's boom, like a fallen plane

uncertain wind, massive drops
the flash, the crack, my clothing sops;

I count and count, to estimate distance,
wondering with an anxious "for instance,"

But your headlights shine bright with coming back, black tires roll on, crushing drive gravel.

I no longer mind the arc and report,
nor the pound of the gavel;

in your hurried hands,
the housekeys,
and my heart

I run to you on long wet grass,
an instant's travel,

to our dinnertime, your loving arms.