The Storm

The Storm

Late in a grey New York autumn
the winds of fall blow icy cold.
Wild birds eat stale bread crumbs
heavy snow is coming, I'm told.

In the air you can see your breath
as winds howl and the storm breaks.
It rages in on us from the northwest
most survive with whatever it takes.

The flurries and squalls soon start
more and more heating oil is sold.
People push loaded grocery carts
stocking for a storm as it unfolds.

Long yawns in front of a warm fire
stirred my coffee with an old spoon.
Thoughts in the solitude that inspire
heard the call of a solitary loon.

© Copyright 2005 T.L.Finch (UN: t.l.finch at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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