Winds have not begun, yet.
Silent...too silent. A hush.
Water in the sky, rapids
Through beds of December...
The hunting cats approach,
Each ghosting through the woods,
Padding. Silent...too silent.
Wolf stands bristled. Knows.
She looks at me. Bristled...
Knowing the forecast
Of pen to paper...
Storm...carnage....
elysabeth faslund
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poetic-forecast/
