Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

For a week now thunder has been prowling the edges of the farm.
Any expectation of wind or catharsis of storm
died after the first few days
merged into the rumble of trucks from the distant quarry
the ocean crying wolf.
Sometimes very early a spatter of rain wets the ground.
Sometimes a patch of blue sleight-of-hands a few clear drops
but always the cough and growl
at the back of the trees
like a pet gone wild
exploring the place between having and getting
and won’t come closer.
I like this weather.
I work in the garden
stoop to the grey-green rocks of pumpkins
in their lotus pond
solid and companionable
as the grumblings and drawing attention to itself of the thunder
is companionable.
Who can I tell that I like this equilibrium
between cool humidity and heat.
At night lightning quiet and blank at the windows.
I think of the pumpkins
the sheen on their skin the shock of brightness
when I cut them open.
I fall asleep listening to the aggrieved and fertile
quarrels of the thunder.
I wake up listening glad it’s not gone.