The rage of tempest skies bore down, smashing windows into blizzards of slicing confetti. Trees of aeons tumbled as the devil’s dominoes. Cars moved as if the tarmac were ice, any way but forward. Neither man nor beast could stand in the path of the storm, yet hunker down and pray that it was evil’s last. Their prayers became married to the music of that onward scream, in this ever spun pollution that is the darkest of dreams. Not a thing remained whole, unwarped nor pristine. For this is the way of storms, is it not?
To the blackness came an electric flock, bolting from graphite-cloud to wind-whipped loch. Within that cradle of mountains, in that valley snug, we could only but imagine the force upon each jagged peak. For the lake splashed as if it were gravel that, from the heavens, fell. So heavy were those drops that on winter's hand befell.
The storms took Earth into an onward night, regardless of neither time nor sun, yet came the booming exclamations of heaven and lightning to restart her heart.
She took to the storms as the wind were rocket fuel and the rain her beloved companion. For some are born to shelter, or to shelter others, she was born to tame what others never could.
In these storms I cannot fight the wind, nor keep the rain from filling rivers fast, yet I can move one and all to higher ground. I can keep as many safe as I can.
The storm came with a sepia hint to the silver-black sky, as if it already knew the winds and rain it wrought would echo for eternity.
The storms grew vast, surging as the spring melt river, the air in tight eddies, its playful vortices unaware of their own strength.
As with storms in nature, where the eye is a place of stillness, when you can see your own storms in good perspective, you will find yourself safe and better able to navigate.
The storms separates the hiders from the heroes and villains, washing the stage clean for the last battle.
The storm was a twirl of perfect black ballet dancers, each dressed in windswept grey. They danced to the roar of heaven's drum. They called lightning to their stage. For they were honour bound to come when the compass needed the music of the wind to send its needle full round.
The storm came as the opera of the skies, the instruments determined to sing out, the trees and grasses as their percussion. Even the rain came in orchestrated rhythm, appearing the as the master of the scene yet arriving on unheard cue. From within our home it gave a surging rise to our hearts, calling out that childish sense of adventurous joy.
The lightning and the sun upon the cloud tops was the only brightness that day. The wind ran as if it has been restrained for time out of mind and it was determined to outrun any chaser. The sound of it was a strange song, as if howling yearned for a melody, and we watched the trees join in the unfolding scene, as if the change, though abrupt and startling, was as welcome as a surprise knock on the door.
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