The Cloud Demons

The cloud demons arrive every year about this time, give
or take a few weeks depending on where the jet stream tracks
or how much moisture is pumped up from the gulf.  Demons live
for August in these Great Lakes’ states, unleashing their attacks
accompanied by cymbal, by bass drum for which the band
is noted for with orchestrations played in fleeting skies
of blue, performances of cumulus above the land
of Erie and Purdue, o’er town and farm each demon flies
until the geese from Canada, content on pond and lake,
take to the sky like five alarm, their once distinctive vee
devoid of shape of which they know yet disregard for break.

The demons mass in atmosphere, and with alacrity
demand the fear of gentle folk, crescendo long and loud
as if they owned the Doppler rights, or rights bestowed them from
the sun deferring to those bossy boots of demon cloud.

As is the case each year, I must write about the clouds, some-
thing for the Paper, an article for the readership
of demons in the sky, the dark demand and lurk of brood.
As if an evil swirling high above retains its grip,
I will compose, despite the fear, despite the bitter mood.

20 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
August 23, 2013

Requirements
--band
--geese
--boots
--Paper