Clouds lower, radios crackle.

I repulse election-denying monkeys.

 

Clouds scissor open and close and obfuscate.

I punch the patriots crawling up Capitol walls.

 

Like opening curtains, I wave my hands like clouds,

expose sore-losers and our Child-in-Chief.

 

I cast my cares to the Divine.

My dark clouds sink into the  Rotunda’s plight.

 

Let my body fill with light.

____

Photo Credit: “Oncoming Front” by Ross Smith