at a high noon

a hint of thunder in the heavy air
clouds in a steady magisterial pace
move into what seems a natural place
down the steep hill workers do not stare
the sun itself would not seem to dare
illuminate our still-dry montane space
with beams of mighty heat and grace
for other matters still i have to care
tasks not yet done i now must confront
thoughts to be written words to be unsaid
this is for such things the proper hour
others i hope will have to bear the brunt
so much to read so little i have read
the wordy magic cannot lose its power