One of my most favorite things, watching a storm move in. The stillness ruffled here and there and soon the sound becomes the foreteller as the wind picks up and bends the tip-tops of the trees. Maple seeds helicopter through the air, and birds have found a spot to hunker in and wait it out.
Sky, pure creamy white, unmarked. But in the west, blackness moves amoeba-like, pseudopods crawl it along.
I smell the freshness in the air; though I still reek of old-man’s aftershave. Old people night tonight for dinner. In by four and out by five, grey whirlwind of man that moves so slowly, leaves his scent upon my shirt for all the long night left.
Ah, it may have passed, the darkness on its way northeast. It leaves no scent behind.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Ah…I watched the same storm move over me…excite me…bringing me new inspiration for my poetry…