A Sonnet

White-hot, searing bolts of lightning streak like
Flying harpies cackling with a strange glee.
Distant thunder, baleful omen of the
Ever-nearing menace, follows as a
Rumbling, growling, dormant beast arousing.
Trees stand firm, the outposts of a brave but
Most inadequate defense, in glaring
Contrast to the glow'ring skies of shrouding
Gloom. All nature seems to stand and wait the
Coming blast—all nature save one lonely
Sparrow, recking nothing of celestial
Warfare, having no thought but to wend its
Way to skies of clearer blue, beyond the
Reach of the inevitable tempest.