Storm Warning
 
It is the low wind boils the lake's surface, 
The frantic reeds baying against the dumb 
Fire of the wind's foregathering fury. 
 
And skyward, far from harbor of trees, 
The struck picnic of fowl folds up 
Its brief excursion under the veined sun. 
 
The leaves of trees spill to a glut of green 
By the lake's edge; and, where banked, 
The hooded bee-bait blooms bend low and break. 
 
The darkening hoard of the sun's warmth 
Drowns in the ruined lake, at last, 
To pattern the hour's pulsating horror: 
 
Where, for a moment demandable and brief, 
Two interlacing leaves trace a calm route 
Landward, and the now uncertain weather. 

--Carlos A. Angeles