The silence of the dying grass
Their frozen stalks that greyly pass
Under the clouds which rush ahead
To join the rising thunderhead
The hail starts in tiny stones
From far above the mountains thrown
The sound of gravel made of snow
Gains tempo as the tempest grows
Wind whips the eyes as hail sears
The skin of those caught in the clear
The thunder cracks, a branch falls free
From the arching, shaking tree
But now the storm has reached its peak
The hail slows, the fences creak
The tempest races cross the plain
It moves ahead but doesn't wane
Leaving behind the pools of pearls
That click beneath the bounding squirrels