Storm

The heavens are low
with dark cloud.
My vision grows dim.
Are those whitecaps
or swooping seagulls
that I see
dashed against black rock?
Birds’ footmarks on wet sand,
a lone Labrador
struggling back to shore,
frisbee in jaws,
anxiety in dog eyes,
picnic blankets,
difficult to fold
in the rising wind.
Car taillights are a brighter red.
Deserted wharf,
dull shadows on Alcatraz.
The clouds are alive.
There is turbulence in their ranks.
Infantry takes position;
bows are taut.
The cavalry stomps and neighs.
Trees are bent double shoreward.
The storm is coming in.