storms

It was in the beginning of March when the storms came. We needed the rain from the long winter drought, but the terrific show that came along sent shivers through me. It had been a long day and as soon as the sun melted like layers of a peeled orange beyond the horizon, blackness crept through filling the shadows and leaving a silent hush over the forest. A wispy spell of rain traveled throughout the trees like a soft melody tucking them in for the lonesome night. A slick white tail of lightning shrieked through the starless sky followed by a rumble that washed excitement over me as I gazed out the glass window. The wind howled like a lonely dog, and the crack of thunder repeated relentlessly. The naked forest was awakened and waving in the careless wind as if saying goodbye to an old friend. I could see the ditches begin to fill with thick muddy water as it slid down the mossy bank like a snake. There was a constant dripping in the gutters above me as the rain began to fall more vigorously. It pounded the surface so densely and fast I felt it was strong enough to send a little wave. I could almost taste the ocean salt already. But the air was fresh, humid but clean like the oak trees now soaked in tears. I began to wonder at the black wearisome clouds. Why did they cry so?
I could imagine a weeping willow in this storm, its vines lashing against the wind like lightning, and as it always faces down never looking to the sun as if its arms no longer moved but wilted and blew like feathers in the forceful breeze. It wept, and in the dripping rain it resembled wild tresses of hair masking an obscure hollow trunk, coarse and shedding bark like an aged weather-beaten house.