The sirens have been screaming all afternoon
They howl their warnings,
But the storm might never come.
It might never come, so the people assume that it won’t.
They go about their business
As the black clouds stack on top of each other.
The shadow they cast on the freshly mown lawns in front of houses is ominous
But it’s nothing the people haven’t seen before.
Some other neighborhood will be struck, and they’ll be safe.
But later, when the lucky ones return,
The ones who weren’t at home,
There is nothing left but splinters and ash.