Demons are easy to spot: tornadoes that
level wholesome Kansas towns, gales that
isolate the Northwest coast, droughts that
fill tent camps with refugees.

But how a saint will move, a single cloud that
sails above a front or flies the other way, that’s
not even noticed until some nun looks up from
prayer to see it—beatific.

Or watch how anger storms around a house:
closets cleaned to find a single thimble, the
magnificent rattling of cookware, the quiet
that walks the border of a curse.

These days I watch the skies like a farmer, stunned by
what can be foretold and what I’ve missed. To some,
weather is flat as a window.
But I keep on finding myself out in it.

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