Mireille Bouchard, 1998

Standing on a cliff,

looking over the edge,

The voice of the wind,

calling like a mother,

is getting strong and harsh.

The clouds ominously turn dark as blackberries

and the rain pours down like stinging needles.

The whir of the sky's energy

and a flash of light

and the storm runs away,

like a hurt dog licking his wounds.

The storm is dead..

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