Little Squall

 

A distant roll of thunder announces the approaching turbulence;
Ominous gusts herald the nearing storm.
Large raindrops, as if in slow motion, fall past the window as doors and skylights are hurriedly secured.
The dry road outside turns speckled, then windswept spray wafts across the tarmac.
The air becomes diagonally striped, puddles appear and grow in seconds, alive with exploding impacts.
Lightning crackles all around, illuminating the darkened clouds.

Trees wave to and fro, helpless but resilient.

The rain eases to a gentle pattering hiss, almost serene, as children run for the cover of home.

Puddles overflow the kerb and spread across the grass, transforming into a temporary swamp.
Cars leave trails of ripples in their wake as drains silently ease the flood away.
The air smells fresh and earthy as the rolls of thunder grow more distant, reminders of the power of nature’s wrath.

The atmosphere’s mild anger is sated, the earth’s thirst slaked, the air refreshed and cleansed as the storm cloud drifts on to its next beneficiary.

 

 

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