Thunderstorm Woman

She’s a big horse woman,
dusty and sun-squinted tired.
Her bad frayed braid
hangs down her shoulder
reaching for her two big breasts.
She holds her shovel like
she holds the Earth,
a white knuckle grasp in the midday heat.
She has cracked heels
and dirt under her nails,
mud bruised jeans
and wide bull hips.
She digs her mud knees
into her green cabbage rows,
listening to the black
flap of crow’s wings.
She alone sows the land with
her back rounded to the sun,
the sound of harvest grunt
bellowing from her throat.
When she’s done watering
her squash and cucumbers with salt
from her forehead, she turns
her face to the sun,
hands on the curve of her spine.
Believes she’s a tree,
a root in the ground,
she drinks the rain that falls
from the storm clouds.
She wakes up at first dew
to feed chickens and cows
hums to herself when
she knows she’s alone.
She understands solitude
like she understands the sky,
both a space between
the Earth and something else.


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