Tut, tut, looks like rain.
Time to paint—
thunderstrokes, eye whorls,
hail blobs, wind-swept skylines,
angry ship prow bleeding
acrylic on an unrecovered beach,
cross-hatched crevice torn
in the colonial grandeur,
fate of the dark cargo undetermined.  

They tell me that this,
like every other storm will pass.
Silly old bear.