Alluvionnet

Pitch black cliff edge, the airy break tempts weight
Where crags torn to pebbles are slip and loose, 
Whose downfall be a rocky broken truce 
Beware the blade, so dear, cuts clay to slates
Failing yet legends to fall to their fate.
But this isn’t how a life wants to lose 
Uprooted, windblown, nowhere left to choose.
Behind, only shale, below, grievance great
Facing odd options, scrabble or abyss
Standing low, as the oak before the scree
For the peaceful hero it comes to this 
Resting on sands of time, left to debris.
Only water enjoys a dark cascade
So pour pure water which we all are made.

.

  A week of stormy weather put down nearly all interest in the great outdoors. Gray skies at dawn darkened by the minute into black squalls stalking lawn mowers, laundry lines and back yard barbecues. The cascade of rain was a moving arena with flood gates, furiously rammed forward by the head-butting thunder of fiery-eyed bulls, snorting in anger at each bolt of steel lightning thrown by the matadors of Thor. At least, this was the very real threat dreamed up by the two dogs together under the table; the safest place to be should ever a fiery-eyed bull charge through the door.  More likely charge through the window, thought old dog, due to the way the panes rattled. Some of the original windows in the fifty year old house fit so poorly now they clattered like castanets when the thunderous bullfights passed overhead.
  Day after day, storm after storm pushed back any memory of sunny skies. The lilting notes of bird songs diminished to a few near drowned gurgles between downpours. It seemed to some that the bamboo cane brake was suspiciously enjoying the soaking the garden was receiving, dancing in the winds and drunk on the rains.  
    A thousand bamboo towered over the south bank of the pond. A legion of sky scraping, green poles, at the same time as pliant as a sapling and as strong as an oak. The bamboo was as unique as the sound of its name. The birds who nested on it, the critters who sheltered in it as well as the garden that was screened by it appreciated the bamboo’s usefulness. And after the rains a few hundred spiked shoots will push up from the ground, sprouting up several inches a day, as if accounting for all the rain it had absorbed, for it was the bamboo for whom the rains came.  
  The weather reports offered no hope for a cease fire and, feeling like refugees, the four furry friends entered their second week of bad weather and were getting a little battle weary.
  The cats, as cats will, assumed themselves impervious to bolts of lightning that contained the power of an atom bomb. It just wasn't their scene and had nothing to do with their soft and lofty world. However, it was possible that a build up in the air of positive and negative electrical ions, or whatever, sparked sudden feline explosions of acrobatic aviation. Dive bomber surprise attacks sent them tumbling and plunging suicidally in devilish delirium. Black and white kitty rolled like dice and came up doubles. Orange tabby cat puffed out like an exploding cigar. They leapt and careened after each other from room to room and, once, indiscreetly crashed into the indoor clothes drying rack Mrs. had inconsiderately put where it had not been before.  To recover their self-respect they ruefully licked away any besmirched hairs and traces of laundry softener. Aside from the wacky outbursts, the cats spent the stormy weeks balled up like buttons in their beds blissfully sleeping away the hours.
  The dogs spent their time either under the table or under the feet of Mrs.. During every thunderstorm they were never more than an inch from their heroine and became constant obstacles to be tripped over. Paws were repeatedly stepped on, followed by overdone apologies from the clumsy human. But by the next clap of thunder sore paws were forgotten and the hang dogs were underfoot again. Groveling sank to full displays of cowardice. Red dog shook as if he were on the table at the vet's about to get a vaccine (red dog's worst nightmare would be going to the vet's during a thunderstorm with a waiting room full of cats).  Both dogs wore wretched expressions indicating, if Mrs. had not known better, they had just eaten a dead iguana which might rematerialize on the kitchen floor at any moment.  Never was there a pair of more gloomy Gusses. They stayed indoors, tucked their tails of woe and privately worried over how long they could hold off the call of nature.

  One morning a neighbor's rooster crowed loudly and clearly. Upon opening of the window blinds, bright sunshine invited itself indoors, waved a shiny howdy-do and welcomed everyone out to an amber uprising. One or two miscreant clouds sailed by, obviously lost. The bees were up at task early to find most of their flowers laying blighted on the ground under the bushes like a soggy reflection of what had been. The silver birch, already stooped over from too many winter ice storms, was now bowing in near surrender. The garden of flowers, transformed now into a garden of green, suffered no permanent damage and the colors were only away on furlough. Other gardens had been harder hit where trees were uprooted and lawn furniture whirled away to Oz. All pets were fine and a neighborhood head count confirmed, that by some miracle, all the dogs had actually survived.
  The birds weren't convinced. They were holding their breath. One mourning dove tried cooing but sounded more like a dirge. Red dog stayed on the porch seeing no point in getting his paws muddy. Black and white kitty had a pressing agenda of mousing and carousing to attend to and she stole away across the soaking lawn wasting no time gossiping about the weather. Orange tabby cat followed her, doing the hokey-pokey. "Put your wet paw in, take your wet paw out, put your wet paw in and shake it all about." He followed her closely until she spun around with a hiss, "I vant to be alone!" Sometimes orange tabby cat can bob and duck pretty quick and he traded her left jab for a belly flop in the wet grass. Back on the porch old dog stretched, eased his bones down the steps and marched down the driveway.  He knew the rains had washed away all his stomping ground markers so, for the sake of his territory, he had to go remind the noses that know, whose turf was whose.

               Oh clamorous skies of bellicosity,
               Heave clouds of turmoil with velocity.
               We'll turn our backs, we'll snub our noses,
               We are not afraid of your overdoses.
               With each thunderous battalion
               We know the storm is nearer done.
               Counting the seconds between bolt and boom
               Till we can safely peek out of our room.

(end part IV)