This powerful Hurricane Patricia. |
In the Ocean Pacific, down Mexico way, comes a hurricane bound and determined to say, “I am gale of the century, so be aware of my well defined eye and my fast moving air.” Ah, my name is Patricia--the storm of all storms; I was born over water where low pressure forms. A depression my genesis, tropical sea; now a force, I’m well armed to be all I can be. (All the armies of Earth cannot temper me so; I feed off of the sea and I go where I go. Seen from space, I’m imposing as cloud forms opaque; I’m as deadly as many a major earthquake.) All the ones that have gone before me will now pale; (call me hurricane, typhoon or simply big gale.) Neither Andrew, Katrina nor Sandy will stand as a match to my power on sea or on land. I’m the engine of low pressure loosed to bestow damage to the nth power as my fierce winds blow. I was helped by El Niño--the warmth he did bring; warmth empowers me so and it adds to my sting. When I started my engine in Pacific calm, I was not very far from the Island of Guam. Like Kon-Tiki, I managed to sail as I grew underneath a clear sky in the waters of blue. Now as I approach land called America North, men deemed hurricane hunters in planes venture forth. They then radio in as they rub their eyes red; “Winds of two hundred miles per hour!” is said. I am targeting Mexico--coastal resorts; maybe Puerto Vallarta, a slew of small ports. I am child of climate with power extant; If you want, I am climate scold, rare weather rant. Yet I am who I am--be it so understood; as I slam into towns I will shatter old wood. I may bend rusted metal and snap trees in half, but it’s not for mere kicks or a climate-based laugh. Now I hear through the wind-vine that folks are upset ‘bout my oncoming surge, my fierce winds and my wet. I am sorry that I give the human race fits, because I’m only doing what nature permits. 40 Lines Writer’s Cramp 10-23-15 |