Under a canopy of deathly grey clouds <br />A little house sits obliviously. <br />The sky is dark, bleak, <br />The absence of its rich twilight tones glaringly obvious: <br />A forewarning. <br />Treetops wave, <br />Leaves rustling like ripples in the sea; <br />Swayed easily, <br />Carelessly, <br />By the hollow wind. <br />Silence prevails. <br />And suddenly, <br />For a moment, <br />A jagged streak of liquid white fire <br />Splits the heavens, <br />Illuminating the sky in one blinding burst. <br />Then a distant drumroll, <br />Promptly, as if on cue, <br />Releases a deep bass boom, <br />Resounding in the roar of a thousand tongues; <br />Even the air tingles <br />With a n t i c i p a t i o n <br />The little house shudders <br />On its foundations, <br />Waiting for the inevitable. <br />And at last, <br />The rain <br />Comes pelting <br />Down<br /><br />Leslie Ching<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stormsong-2/
