It is
supremely silent,
As though
the wind is holding its breath,
Before
deciding on which direction to blow.
Three loons
bob on the placid ocean,
Not more
than one hundred fifty feet,
From my
front porch.
I think
about calling to them,
But what do
I have to say to loons?
I am not
skilled in the art of communicating,
With them as
are my grandsons.
Shep can
call them in so close,
That he
could reach out and touch,
Them if he
extended his hand.
The loons
would not understand me,
If I was
fool hearted enough to try.
Besides, it
is the wrong season.
The wind has
decided now on its course.
It purses
its lips, bellows its cheeks and blows.
The moment
is gone; changed in an instant, a mere poof.
The sky has
gone from blue to a more steely shade.
Everything
can change in a moment,
With the
blink of an eye peace can vanish,
And the
storm will set in.
Already it
is on its way.
I can feel
it in the air.
