With the sweep of her skirt, she brushes
the green sheen of summer from red rock walls,
slows rainbow trout in the creek,
chills Sycamores ‘til their russet tears drop
into thickets of blackberry brambles.

Across the canyon floor, she searches
for lingering lizards and toads.
In her pointy boots, she shoos them out
along with brittle weeds. Her wicked laugh spirals,
cloaks the moon in amber mist.
She ruffles feathers of those she casts south
as shadows twist up the trees.

Upon burrow and log, she drums a beat
to conjure up the storm. Lightning flashes,
thunder rolls, it’s time for her final feat.
With her conical hat raised high toward the sky,
she pierces the trembling clouds,
echoes moans that fade as she seeps
deep underground with the crackling rain.

© by Donna Pflueger.
Used with the author’s permission.