Storm Horizon

Storm Horizon.
ली

Over the hills and not too far away, pregnant clouds whose water’s haven’t yet broken, limp ever onwards.
“Storm’s a-coming, a-coming,” say those aware.
Thunderclaps rape the silence. Malevolent lightning whitewashes the sky, but no angry noise or violence can deter the motherly clouds; ever onwards they limp.
The scorched sky smells of ozone. Those aware know what’s coming and swiftly head for home. Dogs have stopped barking and cower beneath tables and chairs and stairs, or in the arms of their faithful masters and keepers. Cats dare to play with the impending danger though, fleeing into the maelstrom, rebels to the core. Flocks of birds fly away and away, anywhere distant from the hills, away from the clouds of motherly love which limp ever onwards.
“Storm’s a-coming, a-coming,” say those aware.
A murder of kids too young to know danger, too young to count to ten or to recite the alphabet, play in the streets, dancing like Navajo, singing and praying for rain.
“Get inside, now!” yell those aware. These parents and guardians who forget they were children once, forget what it was like to be more innocent than ignorant, beckon then shepherd their younglings home.
As I watch I think: when did we as a nation become so scared of nature, of life, of pregnant rain clouds, slaps of thunder and scratches of lightning? When did fear of the known snatch my heart?
Freckles of rain blur the view, spattering my window, making Rorschach patterns on the empty roads and pavements.
They were right when they said, “storms a-coming,” because it’s already here, and only those aware know for how long.