Watching A Tornado From Pocahontas Highway Bridge

We share the heritage of her father though
she is not my ancestor, Little Flower her sister
is somewhere in my DNA, far back in history
the highway aptly named for Pocahontas stretches
high above the James River and the River City

it rises gently above the lush, flat river banks and
from its heights motorists and toll keepers alike
have glimpsed native fires and dancers of old
briefly visible by the river, their drums resounding
with the beat of ancient owners of the land and river

after a trip to Williamsburg it was there, I spied it
in the distance high above the highway, close to where
I call home, the dipping, swirling funnel bending down
to rip the earth with its virulent destruction
no dream.... this tornado horror ahead of me

only God and one person know how such whirlwinds
trouble my dreams, I watch them, hide from them
die in them, in the storms, in my dreams....often
no other specter could engender such fear as this
this was the first I had seen personally, too close

racing toward home, leaving toll both in rearview
would the cyclic column of death swallow me up?
would I arrive home to find everything destroyed
or would God once more allow me to wake up
before a malevolent dream sucks my car into eternity?

for I am not brave like my kinswoman
renowned, courageous daughter of Chief Powhatan
she who risked her own head to save an Englishman's
but watching the pernicious storm I can't help but wonder
would Pocahontas herself run from a tornado?