The rain flies by in sheets,
straight up, perpendicular
to the ground like stiff
backed race walkers,
hips swaying,
resolutely heading for the
finish line.
Dune grass blows rhythmically
back and forth and round and
round like something is
whipping it in a bowl.
Tree limbs sway then lurch
violently like arms reaching
for other arms to hold them
up and give them stability.
He looks out the window,
hears the waves crash against
the shore like bombs
blasting in the early dawn
of a World War II attack.
He wonders if sirens
will start.
He sits mesmerized by
the awesome power
of the wind and he knows
that nature gives him no
more thought than he gives
the ants on the sidewalk
when he strides by.