ㅁ 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.
– a sonnet in iambic trimeter.
