Thunder in Our Bones

Granddad whispered stories 'bout sparks in the sky. Said a man could call thunder

if he just asked why. He'd stomp his boots in the pasture,

hum with the clay, talkin' 'bout a kind of magic we've let slip

away. But now we stroll not feel, wires glued to our hands,

forgot the old current runnin' under the land. Chasin' neon ghosts while the old

roots sigh, we're afraid of the power we can't quantify. We were wizards

once, with thunder in our bones, summoned up a storm,

never needed a phone. Now we're barefoot and lost in a maze of