The air smells heavily of salt,
of brine.
A brisk wind teases my hair into a lion’s mane,
whipping it across my face in desperate curls

The water is storm-tossed and angry
waves knife at the shore
and at my toes, which dangle over the edge of the rickety dock

Clouds hand, fat and grey, just over my head
and I can smell the oncoming storm, sharp and electric
in the frigid air.

Thunder rumbles in the distance,
a discontented cat about to swipe
at an unsuspecting victim.

Even as I sit, fat drops of water begin tumbling
from the storm-darkened sky,
turning the already choppy surface of the ocean
in to a field of rippling ridges.

It is time for me to go inside
to retreat from this angry beast of a storm
but I will watch eagerly from my window
as the world crashes and rages around me.