USA. The sky turned green.

A siren began. Not a car. Not a shop. The whole town opened its throat.

I took my sword and stood in the yard, which is the correct response to a sky that has chosen a side.

Dale, my neighbor, folded a lawn chair. Then he took two six-packs from the porch and walked them toward the garage as if escorting nobles.

“Basement,” he said. “Now. Bring a charger.”

“Who is attacking?” I asked.

“Weather,” said Dale.

We sat under the house. The siren went on. Dale opened a beer and handed me one without asking, which is how this family prays.

Above us, something large dragged its furniture across the county.

Dale watched the phone. A man on the screen pointed at colors. Dale nodded, as if the man were a priest he happened to like.

“This one’s gonna miss us,” he said.

“You know this?”

“I know the guy.” He tapped the glass. “If he takes his jacket off, we worry. Jacket’s still on.”

I thought of my maps, my seasons, the quiet way rain arrives at home. Here the rain has a face and a wardrobe.

When we came up, the lawn chair was in the next yard. Dale put it back. He checked the beer. He checked me.

“You did good,” he said. “You came down.”

I had brought a sword into a hole in the earth to hide from a color.

So tell me, America.

When the sky turns green and a man saves the beer first — what is he actually saving?

And the jacket on the weatherman. Who taught you that fear has a uniform?

You came down.