The Storm

The breeze begins to quicken, it's sweet, cool breath, turning sour.

A howl roars across the empty plains; one long, painful cry of anger and frustration.

The trees are anxious, they shake and shiver in their rough green coats, preparing themselves for a long, cold day.

Within minutes, it comes.

At first, a gentle patter of water on soil, feeding the flowers that wait expectantly for their nourishment.

But soon, it begins to pick up. The soft patter turns insistent, like a runner on a treadmill, slowly turning up the speed.

Within hungry seconds, the flowers have closed themselves, protected in their fluorescent shells.

Curtains are drawn, hay is rolled from fields, horses are turned into their warm stables, full of fresh golden straw.

The runner is athletic, he is pushing himself to his limits.

The wind becomes confident, screaming at those who dared underestimate his speed and lung-power.

The stragglers hurry home, their umbrellas weak against the coming storm.

Thunder rumbles deep within the belly of the sky, loud, desperate to be heard. The pent-up fury is evident, like that of a lion pack charging a defenceless gazelle; they know they will take it down easily, but they make sure that all on-lookers are confident of their power in which to do so.

Then comes the final shot.

A burst of bright white lightning illuminates the iron-grey sky, silent and violent, electrocuting a shaking pine-tree in its midst. The beast teeters on its legs for a second too long....and falls, emitting a deep groan as it hits the grass.

The deed has been done.

As quickly as it came, the storm leaves.

The runner turns off his treadmill.

The Lions have caught their Gazelle.

All is peaceful.