Portents

Bird song,
silent.
Sunrise,
but a mere,
soft lessening of the darkness.
Wind,
not a breath sighs in the still.
Mournful,
the train's distant call escapes,
winding itself into the landscape,
and is lost.
The storm,
stealthy in her advance,
waits not.

Once

Love at first sight?
If naught but a glance
that caresses the soul, pauses the heart,
and whispers... come hither.
I believe.

Blue Moon

Glorious,
she rises.
Creating ripples
in black and white against the night.