The wind sings.
It's voice is the melodic rustle of the trees.
This song is as ancient as Earth,
fast and exotic,
as if it tells the story of time itself.
Plummeting rain joins in with violent excitement,
exploding onto the pavement with cacophonous rings.
What a joyous concert!
The din of the earth, so magnanimous and loud!
Climax of song approaches,
and the wind screams with glee,
breaking rhythm for a brief moment,
but only until the rest of the world join in.
The tempo increases and the wind song is strong.
It is transformed.
The melody is a force.
The guttural thrum is a gale.
The harmonies are chaos.
It is a beautiful song transformed into life.
And as quickly as it began,
the song ends.
The haunting applause of the rain is the only thing left
as the wind song dies, leaving behind the lullaby of life in the stirred trees.
YOU ARE READING
Storm Prophecies
PoetryRain falls in crosshatch across the lamp lit sky, splattering the asphalt ground with splashes of reflected light. I look at the sketchbook in my hand and trace the penciled rain and smudged glow. It was shit. I let to book fly onto the muddy grass...
