Pre-Storm

The wind picks up, the clouds roll in; A storm, real soon, may yet begin. The river roils, the birds steer clear, Confirming that it’s coming near. And still I sit, as others stroll, The day still firmly in control. The forecast may, in fact, be wrong, As some suspected all along. The blue’s receding from the sky; A single boat goes chugging by And if, indeed, some rain we’ll get, The worst will be I’ll run home wet.