Imminent

I think it's going to rain. The wind in the trees, in my hair;
at my back, jostling me forward, is telling me, “Run for cover—
a storm is brewing,
of a magnitude
seldom ever seen”.

Instead, I run to the sea, where the waves pound the shore,
and in the pockmarked rocks, water gathers in whirling pools,
nervously clucking, clucking.

The scouring sand finally blinds me. But not before
I see the geese are heading south.