Fields Lie Fallow

Fields lie fallow;
birds wheel wildly in a blankly burning sky.
There is a dreadful waiting,
the sigh before the wailing cry.
the silent hiss of an ill-turned radio.
What next? I can only beg.
The crackling bark of lightning,
the terrible will of the fog.

I collapse and fold myself beneath myself,
hands over my head,
as freezing rain counts off:
This is not a drill.
This is not a drill.