It charges up in the summer, and bites;
the wind throws dust that ricochets off your teeth
and stings your eyes;
so you stay, standing in the lean-to with the horses
listening to the howl and the deafening pulse on the roof,
counting between the rain that dashes
and shatters in the dirt outside,
until it heads south in front of a sunlight tail;
so you sit and listen to the echo
and the small noises of the ground after a storm,
dazed by oases of water-filled hoofprints.