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The Stormy Village

"It's back again!"

"It's back again!"

The church bells ring.

The town crier hollers.

The people bustle.

They hide in their houses.

The tall, dark, clouds,

High up and so distant,

Drift ominously.

 

No overt threats are spoken by nature.

Nature only exists as a reaction.

The complexities that create a storm

Can't all be accounted for,

But can be understood,

If only in peices.

 

The weather of the globe,

And where it falls on certain days -

Never up to chance,

But entirely up to chaos -

Who is impartial,

But purposeful,

And with utmost certainty

Will pay a visit

At least a day or two out of the year.

 

But here in this town,

The storm will rage often.

The people despair when the lightning hisses and strikes at their eaves.

The cold stinging rain

Clings to their clothes,

Their hair, their wet cheeks,

Seeps through their thatched rooves,

Plays a dancing game across the dirt ground,

Kicks up filth to spot the walls,

And in the morning, by the lake,

A villager is found.

 

The sun will beat down.

The air will feel heavy.

With time it will clear,

But for now nothing will feel real.

There is too much context to be ignored,

Too much greif to enjoy the clear sky,

Too many mourners to notice the bright sun.

 

On the hill, by the farm

The children are around,

Oblivious to the humidity and

Fearless of the next storm.

They play a game with no winners.

They play to taste the freedom and the

Opportunity of good weather.

 

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