On - Coming Storm

Wild-Wind shaking...
Its fist in my face.
Trembling in anger,
Side stepping the place.

Sounding under eaves,
And rounding the corner.
Wails falling on ears,
With sounds of a mourner.

Tree branches are reaching,
And pulling their hair.
Pulling the currents,
High in the air.

Dark clouds are wafted,
So fast is their power.
Rolled up in a mass,
That pass by the hour.

Wild...are their forces,
Moving in with alarm.
Down from the mountains,
In an oncoming storm.

E.P. 1908 - 1989