The orchestra of the storm booms in victory over its arch enemy sunlight. The violins of swaying trees and the cellos of creaking trees are joined by the loud timpani of falling trees.
Deep gray storm clouds push away the sunlight rudely dismissing it as inferior.
Bright lightning flashes, splitting the spines of frail tress roughly apart. Boom! The ground shakes as the weeping willow falls on to the soft spongy ground.
The willow is not the only one weeping; a mother bird sings a lamentation at the sight of the circle of twigs that has been crushed under the heavy trunk of the willow.
The sadness of beautiful songs that will never be sung.
A mural of rain paints the soggy sky adding more to the symphony of the storm.
The storm slowly becomes dormant once again waiting for the right moment to strike once more.
Awesome!
ReplyDeleteI love this sentence:
The sadness of beautiful songs that will never be sung.
:)
Ava
Thank you!
ReplyDelete