A poem
The wind whips through,
runs along the old fence;
I can hear its whistle,
and feel its cool.
The day turns darker,
clouds hide the sun;
grays gather and swirl
angrily above.
I look on,
anxious for the rain;
there is nothing more
that I can do.
An alligator lies
on the opposite shore,
warms himself
under the sun
that is no more.
They say it is coming,
there is nothing
but the wind.
Soon the rain,
or the sun will come,
life will move on
as it has before,
but now we are still,
together,
waiting,
in between.
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