Edmund V. Strolis


The Storm

Silence in still anticipation, a hellish storm is brewing in the west.
A robins nest within the pines, will shred and cartwheel with the rest.

Arrow straight across the stillness, the mourning doves retreat.
Before a gray wall now deep purple, with daylight in defeat.

Noon has now turned to night, as ancient wonder grips us all.
To stay or run is the question, we ask ourselves, so frail, so small.

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