storm hanging all day in abeyance
still hung, as night comes on,
sky lowering,
canny old rooster wind vane mute,
black trees in silhouette against
the smudge of gray, cedar or sage,
uneasily portentous
like the witches in Macbeth,
the weird sisters,
or koshare, sacred Pueblo clowns—
the black-striped spirit-possessed
mud clowns, Thunderbeings,
innocent and wise, who tease
to their climax the quickening dances
of spring,
who usher in the Cloud Beings
and through their necessary mischief
fed with melons and tortillas
mediate for rain
—Christie
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