tornado

it ends the way it begins,
quickly, intensely, without explanation or apology.
sand settles across the lonely stretches of highway
kept company by towering wind generators,
turned by longing,
and good-hearted country radio stations,
empassioned by preachers
and softball scores.

it ends this way,
with nothing slipping through fingers,
because nothing was there,
unless you count an afternoon dust storm,
brought on by the desolate cultivation,
of food for cities,
and the lanky loneliness,
of a cloudless day.