The Storm

The storm is brewing, coming in,
The sky grows dark with fear
Each birds is calling to its mate,
“Find a tree, it’s near!” White tails flashing out an alarm
“Clear the meadowland”
The world is almost crackling now
The storm is near at hand The clouds hang closer to the hills
To hide from what’s begun
The air’s almost too thick to breathe
Beneath the fading sun The aspen leaves quake in the breeze
That’s thick with sweet perfume,
The fragrances plucked as it passed
Each grass & prairie bloom

And then the raindrops start to fall,
Like bitter angry tears
Spilled from the eyes of raging clouds
Born of a pain that sears

A crashing fire rips through the clouds
And echoes in the hills
The river cowers in its bed
And drinks what heaven spills

The trees bow down, limbs twisted back
Beneath the brutal gale
The ground is littered with torn leaves,
With splintered limbs and hail.

But then, as swiftly as it came,
The storm is spent and gone
And in its wake, the sun returns
As if nothing had gone on…