a silence roars before the storm; ignored
by creatures gross and frank, its reckoning
is a stealth shift of air, the bored
rush, heedless of the change that’s beckoning

but residents of twelve clear jars begin
to stir, to sense, to turn awareness up
towards cabled sky; though gross and frank, the thin
disruption heralds tea in tempest’s cup

to bulbous gobs of prognostication;
they edge and ooze with sensitivity,
then rise above their much-maligned station
displaying gross and frank proclivity

they climb to peal, to selves themselves conform;
the bloodful, thus, ascend to toll the storm