Storm

I'm not really sure how to classify this. It's not really a short story, but I don't think it's really poetry, as such. Just another of my late-night scribblings

The sound of rain tittering upon a tin roof is a southern staple. Each thunderstorm releases a torrential downpour from the clouds as if the sky itself was crying, unable to bear the weight any longer. Accompanying this deluge is a howling wind, moaning in despair as it whips the trees and sneaks in the eaves of old houses, making them creak and shake as if in fear. Many have withstood far worse, though every new storm seems to shake them down to the foundations. From our homes, our habitats, we humans nonchalantly ignore the rage of nature, secure in the glow of fluorescent lighting, basking in the cold embrace of the television, removing ourselves from the fabric from which we were wrought.

 

But the trees that dance in the fury know, as do the quivering houses, that everything is finite, fleeting, waiting for the chance to uproot or blow away, to be led astray, back to the beginning. From the ground they came, and shall go again. This weary world is hungry, and the tears of the clouds are no longer enough to sustain it. In time, it will reclaim the proud mountains and the unending oceans, swallowing them until everything is silent once more, save for the weary wind.