One
Hard bright sharp sharp
Stroke.
Before you can think
Concussion hits
—You fly through the
Brick wall's ghost—
Shakes your lungs
And climbs up the sky.
Down they tumble
Too fast to count;
Uneven blows to ears,
Heavy, soft traverse, hard,
Then again softer...
You can catch an echo
If you are lucky.

When the noise dies
Blue-white streaks still
Stain your retina;
You blink, and blink again, but
The glowing line
Is slow to fade.

Days later, silent flicker
Under blackfoot, purple-edged cloud
Captures your eyes.
It was so loud, you think,
Yet in this moving car
You cannot hear an outer sound.
Pull over and climb outside,
Stand at the prairie's edge with your mother
If you would know the sounds
Of summer storms in Idaho.

---

Luminator Thelms wrote this piece in August of 1991, during a family trip to Idaho. A reference librarian, he lives somewhere in Southern California.