14 September, 2011
In the dead, dark hours after midnight, when the world seems to stop in it's place...
I sit here, in the center of a funnel.
Does the ripping wind foretell a hurricane,
Thrashing, tearing, leaving destruction in its wake?
The last storm's progeny still creep
About me, surprising in their strength.
Might one of them be that which might lift skyward,
Dropping me into lands of danger and hope.
Thrashing, scanning, soaring, I survey the storm.