In July, we attended
tornadoes by radio.

When it came—
a winding cellar snake—

we leaned hard
into her deep freeze,

panic wrenching love
up through cottonwood

branches to twist
and cure. Between

saddles, we counted
the guns aloud.

The cellar held.
We emerged

lacking trust
in any satellite.

No tornado
but a dust storm,

the vilest
truths blown home.