What is it
that makes my aging dog slow
to a dead stop
beneath the pine struck by lightning
when the gray sky is thundering,
admittedly, distantly?
I do not believe
that lightning never strikes twice
in the same place:
I am 5 foot 7 –
the frizzled pine many me’s higher,
jutting above all the others.
Its Medusan branches
sprawl enticingly to lure lightning
down its crackled trunk
out through roots
linked to where I stand rooted
to an oblivious dog.
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