The Storm

The Storm

The storm is coming. Its gray, billowing hands reach out to grab the hills behind me, but its flowing substance can’t manage to cling to the solid ground. It races across the lake, rolling edges looking like clouds of dust in front of a racehorse’s pounding hooves. The storm’s tears have not yet begun their swift decent to the ground far below. But the droplets threaten to fall at any moment, as they await the first one to fling itself at the fast approaching ground. The storm increases its speed, flying across the lake as if its life depended on it. But in truth, the storm itself threatens the lives of any and all ground creatures. The rain begins to drench the land, as I stand at the edge of the lake, waiting for it to approach me. In ways similar to that of a hungry animal, it descends upon me slowly, cautiously. Its movements are almost graceful, near beautiful, but its ominous tones mute the perfectness of all its glory. The valley is soaked. Soft, silent waves roll up the shore of the lake, covering my bare, dry, little feet in cool summer water. The rain pours down, matting my hair to my head. I listen to the serene sounds of the rain splashing on rocks, trees, animals, and the lake.