I try to imagine the sound.
They say a tornado sounds like
a freight train; what would the apostles say?
We each tell only of what we know.
Was it the bluster of flapping canvas
familiar from their days at the sail?
Or the harmonious cacophony
of a festival of flutes and whistles –
seventy-six trombones and
a few ocarinas?
I remember counting the breaths between
the lightning discharge, like fire overhead,
and the rushing wind of the thunderclap,
burrowing into my parents’ bed.
over the water 