By Barb Edler 11 March 2026

Spring in the Midwest is volatile. Tuesday night we watched several weather reports, watched the radar, and wondered if we’d need to get to the basement.

I quickly cleaned the kitchen after supper because I didn’t want to lose the electricity before I had the dishes washed and the counter scrubbed. I watched the lightning, took pictures of the ominous clouds and reflected on the destructive nature of our human failures and life itself. Sin and storms are a natural combination which inspired the following poem.

Wrong Way

Bird poop splatters across my fractured windshield,
a murky egg-colored mix of visceral shit.

I can’t see the road clearly,
curse aloud as I press the wash,
flick the wipers.

Nothing doing!

Gravel dust clouds coat the car,
rocks ping off my back wheels,
I’m clearly on the wrong path
heading nowhere fast.

I debate turning around,
but I’ve been traveling this road for twenty miles,
it seems futile to change directions now.

I was certain this way would lead to Highway 1.
Worse, my phone is dead and
a storm’s brewing to the west.

Ominous shadows encroach.
I choke on dust 
sifting through window cracks, 
battered door panels.

I press on the accelerator,
pick up my speed,
closer to 70 now.

I hope a farmstead or a paved road 
will appear over the next hill
when the wheels shimmy.

The car spins, I
lose control on a sharp curve,
careen into a steep ditch.

The sky erupts,
lightning strikes—
hail eviscerates.