Wind-swept sheets of rain, notes
gusting from Oscar Peterson’s fingers, grounded,
soaked up by rock-steady Ray Brown, the night’s pulse,
and the swaying, whispering bushes—brushes
in Ed Thigpen’s hands, thunder rumbles miles off,
a drumroll beneath the music’s surface.
No weather report, this, it is a front
moving through, leaving everyone and
Michael L. Newell is a retired secondary school English/Theatre teacher who currently lives on the south-central Oregon coast. He has had poems recently published in (among other places) Verse-Virtual, Culture Counter, The Iconoclast, Ship of Fools, and Red Eft Review.