The Pull of Storms

We stop at the windows

Splashed in rowdy November

Squalls pushing against one another

Crowding us.

.

Time might come

Arriving on a speck

of afternoon sun.

More hope than seen.

 

We might dare this suddenly

windless place:

Up close, gone quiet

In a big empty pull.

.

There are sounds out there:

Up above and

Gone away from here.

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