A Storm Comes


The creak of a floorboard, old and weathered, with the general shift of the tumbledown shack in the powerful wind. A howling wind, but howling somewhere below the edge of sound; a roaring, raging silence. The pale light of a thin crescent moon, filtering barely through a small crack under the sturdy oaken door. A violent flash, capturing in a perfect moment the dust hanging motionless in the surprisingly still air; and, coming behind it, a rolling crash of thunder. Then, once more, silence.
In the stillness, the barest movement and the slightest sound. Wings fluttering, beating swiftly in the comfortable dark. The softest touch; a fleeting brush against my face. Movement through the blackness, twisting and circling, and coming to rest once more. Another flash. A moment frozen in time, trapped as though in crystal, and then the deafening crack and the darkness rushing behind. A storm comes.


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