Luci Huhn

Naming It

Some called it a micro-burst, 
a column of air like a jackhammer
that pushes straight down into the earth 
but finds no give, must mushroom out
in all directions – flattening ferns 
and grasses, uprooting trees, 
displacing groundhogs, rabbits, voles. 
Opposite of cyclone or tornado
in the way it does its damage, and 
lasting only seconds. Some called
it a twister anyway, or straight-line
winds. But the naming of weather – 
it’s all in the pattern – here a center point
and its terrible widening circle. 
What worries me are the nests 
I found hung up in shrubs or 
on the ground. Pileated woodpeckers, 
the two who lived their whole lives 
in our woods – woods now chaos 
and timber. I heard a giant oak fall
on a house nearby, splitting 
the upstairs bedrooms, one 
from the other, then the first-floor
kitchen from the living room, two 
people stunned to silence as it
landed on the rug beside them, 
TV still flickering. Next morning, 
I walked the neighborhood assessing 
damage while the chain saws growled 
and groused, read at night by flashlight
as a million birds migrated overhead,
no streetlights to confuse them.  
What a week it was, and looking back, 
a bruising year. My losses – favorite
aunt no longer here to call and talk 
about the weather – and a world 
full of hurt when I look wider. 
What difference does it make – Bomb 
Cyclone, Atmospheric River, the rare 
Gray Swan? I’ll let you name 
your losses for yourself. 

Back to Issue XII…