The wind picks up, the clouds roll in;
A
storm, real soon, may yet begin.
The
river roils, the birds steer clear,
Confirming
that it’s coming near.
And
still I sit, as others stroll,
The
day still firmly in control.
The
forecast may, in fact, be wrong,
As
some suspected all along.
The
blue’s receding from the sky;
A
single boat goes chugging by
And
if, indeed, some rain we’ll get,
The
worst will be I’ll run home wet.
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