A Satisfied Crone

That bank of purple black clouds
is satisfied drifting above.
What about those electric white straws
 violently sucking energy?
Those capricious winds
spewing destruction across
 the brown tilled earth?

Sometimes a storm seems
a huge, purple gray, prehistoric bird.
One wide yellowed eye lit
with the enjoyment of
a little left behind destruction
and a crone’s experience of the odds,
reluctantly knowing the end.