The weather dull though breeze is light, an airy sort of still. Seagulls flying overhead, warning all, beware. Though cold as ice, there is chill, linger in the air. Our patriotic sports flag is flying out in flare. No ones around, a pin could drop, yet plane flies overhead. And as it does the wind picks up, trees begin to sway, increasingly in their speed, a storm is on its way.
For where I’m from the rain does fall making puddles on the ground and in recent times the drains block up and the waters all around. A few downed trees, a power cut, waves crashing by the beach. We never get extremes here though, no mud or snow, rare flood. No hurricanes, few lightning storms and deaths are few and far. No fire fights, a few short droughts, living in the south.
What it must be to live abroad where storms range rampantly, where houses fall and people die, destructive wild storms. A dangerous dream to see it twist through the cityscape, tossing objects thrice its weight like paper planes in flight. It’s darkened streak and whirling sounds, a dangerous gift from earth. It’s beauty rare, yet dangerous, shifting through the air.
– The Rambler, 2016