He takes a rare moment of restwalking along on an abandoned Kansas roadThe emergency vehicles buzz past Him and don’t notice Him.
If you looked at him you’d see a guy
in t-shirt and jeans
with a slow, careful smile, and knowing eyes.
If you squinted you might see his olive skin,
and robes, swirling about his bare ankles.
The hem of the robes
which are the cuff of his pants
flap in the wind
a strong wind,
it scares people.
But not Him.
There is a funnel of wind forming
He knows about them, the air masses,
the molecules that make them up, bouncing off each other.
Circling each other, circling each other, circling each other.
The lines are loosening from his face.
His caution is being thrown literarily to the wind,
the wind is carrying it, like a single piece of straw
across the miles, across the bland, flat miles,
It will be moving fast enough, soon,
to be driven straight through a two-by-four.
He raises his arms and he laughs
He is at home, here,
He sings a song
I can not tell you the words to it.
Buildings and lesser creatures are lifted and they are wrecked.
And He loves them as He loves you but
is at home, here,
He is the only thing immovable in the maelstrom.
The Tornado is only almost irresistible.
When the eye settles on him.
Some caution re-enters his gaze
He looks down to his once-bloody feet
And walks away.