by Caitlin O’Halloran
As class was ending, we heard the sudden wash of rain pelting down on the fields outside. Then came the whispers, a passed message of the time and place. When we gathered at the top of the tallest hill, the rain had been pouring for at least an hour, enough time for the dirt to blossom into mud. I followed the others and launched myself down the slope, felt the liquified earth folding beneath me. The clouds overhead began to rumble. Thunder beckoned but seemed miles away. Then a bolt of lightning struck the hill, and darkness gave way to blinding light. I found my body had flung itself to the ground, and when I stood, I saw we all had flattened, our recklessness tempered, at least for now.
Caitlin O’Halloran is a biracial Filipino-American writer living in Rochester, New York. Her poetry has been published in literary magazines, including ONE ART, confetti, Third Wednesday, The Basilisk Tree, and FERAL: A Journal of Poetry & Art. www.caitlinohalloran.com
Little Leaf Literary Journal 