Caveat: Poem #812

The rain will take a pause,
a surging tide will rise,
and thus the dawn’s chill cause
unfolds to draw my eyes.
Two seagulls squat below
upon the dock’s damp wood,
their wings their feathers throw:
a raucous talk is good.
Across the water, clouds
embrace the looming trees:
a hillside’s worth, like shrouds
of purple filigrees.
The sky collects its light
then, tossing motes of white.