As I watch from the back of our a house, a mystical snowstorm embraces, engulfs the top of the mountain,
following the ridgeline, wind howling, raging into swirls, some sleet falling, tearing
at the bare limbs of the forest, and I wonder can there be any beauty in the middle of a storm?
Or should we expect the fire of an ancient prophet, or maybe visions of a flaming sword?
A few minutes later a quiet snow descends, reaching our neighborhood, as the wind moves softly now,
and God speaks, this time using the pine trees.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies
Note: We can see the mountains from where we live. Storms begin there and move in our direction.