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.
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