The sky, a wispy white,

flows across an endless painting

of which we call

the sky.

The amber leaves wave in the brisk wind

And the wind starts up with a flurry,

but I have no worry.

The sun gives off a strange dark light of which I have not seen,

yet I sit here, glued to my rocky seat.

Noises washed out by the wind

with fear that I might hear

the cool wind found its way to me

and brought all its terrors, too.

The storm is almost here,

I can hear it coming near.

I know I should get up and find my way inside

but I know fear,

so by my tree I stay.

All must think it suicide

to sit on this rock here

but with my imagination to help me get away

maybe I shall sit here yet another day.