The Rain Will Come

    A man of many colors once came to the peak of a forest; to him, his view was all of existence. There he foresaw his fate as the first blush of the sky attended his clarity. "I am not of this world, I am but clay that breaks in the dry wind." Despondently, he sat upon the ground cloaked in the healthy green blades of an idle sedge, and the wind whipped around him.

"Soon the rain will come." 

     torrents lashed against the trees in a near soundless embrace, but the man remained unmoved. gazing upward he allowed the cleansing deluge to wash his skin. Softly, the thunder could be heard in the distance. The man opened his eyes promptly. The parting mist before him, began to reveal the contours of a womanly form; as if the stranger was the rain's own creation, she moves forward abandoning what sparse cover the forest canopy allowed her, the misting rain bending to the will of her steady advent. In closed hands, she imparted a simple token upon the man; a cordate clasp attached to a string; "it was broken by my mother's boot." The man smiled at her, turned the worn locket in hand, and accepted her solemn offering. "I must away." she says, "away, into the protection of the shivering trees."

   Lightning ignited the world without a sound; The forest was veiled in a steady cloudburst, and the trees quietly swayed back and forth. The woman, ever watchful and ever graceful, stood still and surveyed the tormented world at hand. Her eyes glinted, as a silver bolt struck the heavens; her brown and lithe features were revealed through the dampness of her clothing. Rivers of rain descend down her cheeks. The world is quiet for a moment but soon the thunder will crash and echo uncontested, across the cold air and her smile will last benumbed and passionate for eternity.