It begins
as a far-off whisper among branches.
Then, deep black clouds like thick smoke
approach from the western horizon;
A charging army of shifting  faces.

Trees shudder in the gathering wind,
as leaves, wrenched from their grip,
flutter away, spinning dizzily.

   The green hills
are stained with an inky wash of shadows;
the air ignites and roars out its complaint.
 
The sky pours out its soul,
 sating the thirst of tree and leaf.
Time draws a breath
  as the deluge continues.

All is alive with the pulse,
  until it subsides,
reluctantly pulled  away on the back of the winds
to give air to a gentle breeze.

Leaves tremble in their dewed newness;
 the sun blinks through the clouds,
sending light through
branches; tree trunks glisten, quenched.

Water drips from limb to earth,
keeping time;
a quiet cadence
after the storm.