The Frantic Antic

low – wide,
  like distant drums in the night,
 so quietly the thunder rolls!

Trees croaking, to one another,
  cracking – creaking in the whispering tide.
 trails in the morning mist.

a pastel fear
a feather’s brush,
lights arising.

the shadow of a wing
   in a dark flame’s heat…
  wind of the dark king.

anticipation’s edge,
  a promise in the wind
 riding the whisper.