Windsong

rain is falling, cool and calm,
and the day yawns on ahead,
the bliss of comfort is a balm,
and yet there looms a dread. . .

birds atwitter, cats lie low,
and slate grey clouds float by,
thoughts run rampant in my mind
from low to keening high . . .

a storm is pressing its warm nose
across the Yucatan,
a hurricane is spawning there
as quickly as it can . . .

September  2004