The Resurrection of The Fly

When the funnel came twisting down out of the anvil cloud,
I saw it first in the middle pane of the window,
then the one on the lower left, as well.

A dead fly hung suspended where the the twister hit the earth,
remaining motionless, as it had for weeks,
while roofs and SUVs circled, suddenly airborne.

I rang the bell, and if it was only the tiny ornamental servant's bell,
at least I tried. "Get to safety," I thought as loudly as I could,
then sat down to wait.

My children all live elsewhere, I already took in the mail,
and covering the garden flowers would do little good,
even if the afternoon weren't mostly gone.

It's gotten too dark to read; besides, the power is out.
I will just calmly watch the resurrection of the fly,
shaking in his cobweb, brother to the brick wall, sister to the semi, the silo, 
and the cement overpass where idiots huddle 
only to be swept out and away, having ignored my warnings.
_______

for Karin's mini-challenge at Real Toads: for whom the bell tolls.