The muted greys of early morning
Shatter as the arms of pure white storm
Break through the clouds to illuminate the ground
In shards of brilliant colour.
Though different from their looks by day
The storm-colours surge against the eyes in beauteous cacophony.
For certain as the lightning carries clash of cymbals
Storm-hues show clear against the raindrops that begin to fall.
Now falling faster, and in greater numbers,
The heavy, pointed spheres become as great glass beads piled on the grass
In another half-second of white light, and Ah!
In the instant of clarity I see one more such bead suspended in the air.
A curious thing, for in this same moment of savage beauty
I see also a child's toy, a yellow construction hat, lying on the grass,
Incongruously commonplace in this world of lights and shadows,
But again the flash subsides, and instead of sight I rely on sound.
The driving wind wildly tosses the trees and roars through their branches
Before hurling rain against the windows in a violent expression of fierce joy.
Neither does the rain languidly fall, but with the wind
It gathers itself up into tight spheres to crash again into thousands
Upon impact with tree, earth, house, or stone.
Thunder still works its way across the horizon,
Grinding like gargantuan millstones.
For one brief and beautiful moment, I think I hear
The ocean's morning tide amid the roar of the storm.
But that moment passes, and soon all save the wind is still again.