Tonight I ate lightning,
  white-hot fingers reaching
      through cloud and gloom.
Thunder rumbled in my chest,
   cicadas rasping in the shadows
      where streaks of light ravish
with pulsing persistence.
  No rain, just groaning trees,
      grass bleached like straw
and air that presses close.
  Birds hiding in the hedgerows
      fling bits of song like spindrift.
How can they sing when I found
  a wrecked nest, a blush-colored egg
      no larger than my pinky nail,
a fracture baring the bones of a baby bird?
  How can we consume the sky
     without breathing the storm?
Discover the quartz without the dirt?
  This electricity buzzing inside
     is a timer, a firecracker waiting –
a promise of something unfulfilled.

KB Ballentine loves to travel and practice sword fighting and Irish step dancing: those Scottish and Irish roots run deep! When not tucked in a corner reading or writing, she makes daily classroom appearances to her students. Learn more at www.kbballentine.com.