The sky pulls on its charcoal cloak,
clouds massing in solemn layers.
What was once a crisp blue canvas
now darkens to indigo, brooding.
I feel the charge in the atmosphere,
that heavy anticipation before the fury breaks loose.
Out in the garden, even the bees have gone silent,
retreating to their huddled colonies as the wind picks up.
The maple’s branches toss in defiant protest
against the coming onslaught.
I tuck a stray wisp of hair behind my ear
and squint upwards at the roiling mass of thunderheads
crowding over the rooftops.
This is the drum roll before the show,
nature tightening the tension with each weighted pause.
The neighbourhood falls utterly still,
houses buttoned up tight
against the storm’s tantrum.
Even the birds have abandoned their flittering
amid the darkening shadows.
Then it comes, the first muted grumble,
a bass echo transmitting through clenched clouds.
A heavy raindrop strikes my cheek,
the vanguard of the deluge.
I shiver in anticipation and something far more primal,
the urge to bear witness to raw elemental power.
The sky rips open with a tremendous crack,
sheets of rain sluicing earthward
as if poured from celestial buckets.
I’m instantly drenched but remain upright,
face raised in reverence to the tumult.
Shredded clouds scud past, lit intermittently
by arcing forks of lightning
that tear through the atmosphere in blinding flares.
For this fleeting moment, I am at the mercy
of untamed forces far grander than myself.
Rain lashes, thunder shakes
the very soil beneath my feet.
But I only feel humility and awe
before such majesty.
Because in this eternal cycle,
in towering tempests and chill downpours,
I am reminded that I
am merely small and transitory,
a mote surrendering
to nature’s ultimate claims.
