Leaving Alaskan waters
The young cyclone drifted,
A gypsy,
Wandering at the decree of global jets
Streaming high above the planet surface,
Never allowed to rest.
Some saw the cyclone as a "Disturbance"
A "Depression"
Not worthy of a proper name,
For names are reserved
For stately storms of the tropics, those
Distant cousins of virgin birth
Hurricane and Typhoon,
Whom we name like
Members of the family.
This cyclone, not yet matured to a storm,
Still a toddler,
Gained grudging notice from the few
Who ventured beneath
In vessels of the sea.
But far ahead of the storm,
The beat of waves
Changes pitch along the eastern Pacific coastline.
The young voice weak at present
Lost among the cacophony of mature rollers,
Sired by storms and winds,
Travels over the great water.
But the voice strengthens
By the hour.
A storm is brewing,
And the weatherwise take heed.