Everything is blue-gray.

Everything is blue-gray.

There is only a hint of sun.

Everyone is peaceful,

And those who aren’t put on a front actors have been trying to achieve for centuries.

In the south there is a storm brewing.

Just waiting for the perfect time to strike.

I sit. And watch.

That’s all I can do now.

I listen to the crashing waves hit the shore,

Sounding more violent than a few moment before.

The storm is getting closer.

Clouds swell.

A roll of thunder is heard from the distance.

The crest of each wave is the purest white.

The sweet innocence of a child’s laugh rests with each crash.

And so do I.

The sky darkens. 

I walk back.

The storm is coming, coming.

At the door I hear voices.

Loud, angry.

One more clap of thunder before I turn the handle.

Reviews

[Emily B]

I remember those storms . . . they hung heavy on the air