storm over the sierra

charging from the north like a wounded bull
the storm gores unyielding oaks and smashes
flower pots in a howling rage against order

power lines flare then snap like used matchsticks
in a downpour that washes away
all previous claims to this land

no matter that we have put
our tracks on the hidden moon
or that strong fences surround
our whinnying horses
on this black night
even the stones know
what belongs to fanged things
with yellow eyes
and a padded step