by Janet Shell Anderson Old women like wrinkled velociraptors probe surprising streets to shop for baby clothes. I am caught up. High Plains Spring is hesitant outside the big box stores, Super Target, Kohls. Nebraska fifty-two mile per hour winds slash just and unjust alike while thuggish skies lower over the south side of Lincoln, monster trucks appear from nowhere. I do divorce. A filthy man whose sign says he will work for food shouts something. Appropriate thunder cracks. I am an attorney. I miss my ex. Maria, haloed in the slanting stormlight, walks transcendent across miles of asphalt, past lines of parked SUVs, surveillance cameras out of reach. The wind dies. I smell tornado weather. The green spring peepers in the pond near Walmart sing their thin frog songs each to each. I do not think that they will sing for me.