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The sun's shape vanished behind bright steel. Its light glowed a while, then all the sky turned to slate. I listened for thunder but none came. Swirls of cloud obscured the peak, while the mountainside had to wait for nightfall to hide it. When the forest was gone I closed the curtains.
The night is too still. What is it up to? Flinging bats about and snooping with its raccoons, I suppose. The usual. But when the moon is concealed there's no telling what might be happening.
I'm still listening for thunder, but only because the cold air feels like it needs to break free, not because I expect the storm to come early. I'm more likely to hear footsteps on the pavement. If I do, I hope the feet belong to deer.
( Sunday Verse )
The night is too still. What is it up to? Flinging bats about and snooping with its raccoons, I suppose. The usual. But when the moon is concealed there's no telling what might be happening.
I'm still listening for thunder, but only because the cold air feels like it needs to break free, not because I expect the storm to come early. I'm more likely to hear footsteps on the pavement. If I do, I hope the feet belong to deer.
( Sunday Verse )
