Thunderstorm

I see Chicago in a giant's palm
Who with least motion could cause major harm
But for the moment still pretends to calm.
The prickle of a droplet on my arm
Almost congealed from pure humidity
Suggests what is to come, but still holds back.
Instead it rumbles ostentatiously
Of what could be, but does not let it crack
Into reality. Thus it remains
The prospect only, and therefore the worst
Neither safe from what that choice retains
Nor ended in the final desperate burst.
The giant's hand is stationary still
But we await the changing of its will.