A flash of lightning momentarily illuminates the landscape.
The sky is a tumultuous battlefield. The wind is an almost visible current that tatters the white clouds and enrages the dark ones, so determined to shed their tears. The wind dances in a wild frenzy, tearing at the white clouds until they have all either fled, or have been ripped to shreds. And, as if one gains from the other’s defeat, the dark clouds continue to grow in size and strength.
The air is alive.
Unrest moistens feathers and glistens in twitching fur. Its sharp tang mingles with the coarse scent of the forest and entwines itself in the fresh air of the hills. Trees swing uneasily as the prickly air dances in their leaves. The grassy hills ungulate like a churning sea and ponds whirl, distorting dappled reflections.
The atmosphere becomes electric with anxiety.
Everything holds its breath in anticipation; the animals freeze in the middle of whatever they are doing; beavers pause, teeth bared against bark. Chipmunks, cheeks bulging, stand still, bodies stiff and fur on end. The trees cease their gentle swaying as the wind stills. Even the hills seem somehow quieted.
All look anxiously up at the sky.
The clouds have begun to weep. Tiny drops of water slice through the thick, metallic air, racing each other towards the waiting ground. Each stares at its individual target – a blade of grass, a leaf, a strand of fur – as it speeds up to meet them.
Born of the lightning, a growl of thunder splinters the silence.
The first tear hits a blade of grass and shatters. The apprehension broken, turmoil ensues. The wind, reborn, tosses boughs and tears through grass. Animals run for cover. Rain drops dance against their targets.
In this split second between lightning and thunder, a storm has begun.
