By Philip Kuepper
Boats sit at nervous anchor
on Mystic River,
the skin of water already feeling
the first intimations
of the hurricane south of us.
A layer of low grey
higher white ones under
a bright blue
sky the hurricane is yet to stir.
An occasional gull flies crying over
the river, away
toward the boat sheds where
each one disappears.
A cormorant lands on the breathing water.
The air is wrapped close around me,
a coat of air, in warm autumn morning.
The trees are yet to flame,
though fiery blue glow the glories
on the vine twined along our balcony,
all pensive, waiting,
for the hurricane arrive.
(12 October 2018)