Thunder Echoes Across the Lakeside
Thunder echoes through the open air,
A ricocheting sound of soul-shattering proportions
That deafens the ants scurrying in the distance,
Made almost human again under the scrutiny
Of the telescope,
Mounted as it is upon the mahogany contraption,
Twisted as it is with stainless steel,
Resting as it is upon the window sill,
Balancing as it is upon my cupped, gloved hand,
Pressing deep into my shoulder
Where a huge chip has been carved by many long
Years of disappointing the parents back home,
Tucked safe among the Outback, stained red-
As are my pants and shoes, go figure.
These were expensive buggers.
Oh, but no time to reminisce now—
The ants are marching two-by-two now,
Their little doctor scurrying behind the burly bear
With the burly arms and the burning arms,
Whose bite packs a punch.
With my magnifying glass focused hard upon 'em,
The light filters through in a straight red line,
Tiny dots of vermillion marking their foreheads,
Followed shortly by a crimson rain, which is funny—
Forecast calls for sun.
There's the thunder again to herald the brief shower,
Intense as it is in this open space, this lakeside crypt
Full of sand and mummies and soon-to-be mummies:
Scrappy young Bostonians, war-crazed men with shovels,
And foreign personalities galore!
We have the drunk Cyclops of a Scotsman,
The gigantic Russian bear and his scurrying Deutsche doctor,
And let's not forget my most despised nemesis,
That Frenchman, the—
Shouldn't leave your back unguarded, mon ami australien.