Stormy Afternoon at the Municipal Airport
By Lisa Trudeau
Marsh hawk hovers over tarmac, skirring gusts, eying
the grassy edge for bugs, mice, small, defeatable life.
The collective noun for shattered glass is paroxysm, or boutade if you feel fancy
i.e. she forced herself to walk barefoot across the boutade of stemware
i.e. she left the house without cleaning up the paroxysm of mugs
No flights today, even the harrier is blown down – Northeast wind
emulsified with rain, snow, and saltwater spume. Erosion weather.
To regain composure one should take deep breaths and move away
from objects that heft nicely in the hand. Avoid what is edged.
I open windows to feel the feral air, trigger a vortex of dirty napkins,
candy wrappers, dumpster-globed until I close myself in again.
The patron saint of chaotic minds is a rabid fox - hydrophobophobia
is fear of rabies, not to be confused with hydrophobia, a symptom of.
No one sees. No one else is out. Except hawk, who dives, emerges
from tall grass with a thrashing snake, drops it, dives again
Hydrophobic is a synonym for insane, though rarely used. Most prefer crazy, lunatic,
bat-shit. Schizophrenic and bi-polar are diagnostic terms, recklessly misused.
Long minutes later he emerges talons empty, then disappears into living sky,
Horus, one eye the sun the other the moon - moods midnight and noon.
A condition, a vexation, a problem at home and work, except when not.
Between waking and the witching hour there is an interlude.
I will stay here as long as it lasts, tuned to the wind’s frequencies, watch
the sopping air wring itself again and again, feel the truck rock, unsoothed,
refigure my psyche to fit this space, remember it’s just another storm.
Lisa Trudeau is a former publishing professional and independent bookseller. She lives in Massachusetts. Recent work has been published by or is forthcoming from Typehouse Literary Magazine, Eastern Iowa Review, Levee Magazine, Cypress Press, Dreich Magazine, Constellations and Connecticut River Review among others.
