Someone is Afraid of Thunder

A low rumble through the clouds
brings on a defensive reflex;
her spine, bristling, rises.

Maybe she shouldn't sleep the whole day.
Maybe that was the mail-truck.
What if the mailman,
in a flash of great fondness,
drove away in disappointment for
missing her alto pitch in E-flat major,
without leaving the mail,
without sharing her passionate enthusiasm?

Not thinking further, she runs
on the trail to the mailbox,
too late to realize the onset
of the grey storm on white sky.

That rumble,
so scary a roar
inside her sensitive ears
with secrets of plotted torture...
the thunder.

Abruptly, the ice
on the driveway
slides under her,
sending her sprawling;
she rolls into a ball, complaining,
but finds her balance,
shakes off her rust colored tresses,
and speeds back home
through the cramped maze
of low-lying branches,
as snow sneaks inside
her coat with ghostly fingers
to catch the underlying symmetry
of her canine hair.