Forecast is grim: Nor'easter bred.
Huge waves will rage against the shore.
But few are worried. No one's fled.
They say, "'Tis nothing. We've seen more."
Pushed by harsh gales, gamboling leaves
flit over roofs, cartwheel down roads,
or fairy dance around bare trees
till heaped like dunes against abodes.
The white-barked trees in silhouette
lift bone-thin branches to the skies
now flush with clouds at blurred sunset
as misty moon begins its rise.
Stars disappear, snow falls and spins
like pillows split, their innards spilt.
Soon roofs and streets have thick white skins.
On lawns Ma Nature's homespun quilt.
When storm wends east our coastal town
seems like a nested mother bird
content to roost, all settled down,
a sleepy burg not to be stirred.
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