Thunder

It began as a wave. It stomped the ground and the sky tore at its seams, a gaping void left inhaling in the wind. It rolled through the streets and swirled on concrete, echoes of echoes battering the walls. The ground had started stuttering, it seemed, but the floor was absolute in its stillness. Slowly, and then all at once, the sound rattled through my hollow bones and ricocheted into the distance. The static of the rain peeled the ceiling away, the air naked in its newfound silence. 

Go back to sleep, it crowed. Go back to sleep.

---

The thunder has been crying without tears. The plants are dry, dying. I have forgotten the whisper of gentle rains.

Only when the lightning calls, when it splits the ground, does the rain come in a torrent. The clouds have been burying the tears until they burst. The storms only last a minute. They are so much stronger than before.

I can no longer hear the rain without waiting for the power to flicker out.

---

Yesterday, it looked like the sky was burning. Sunset spilled pink light into the sky as storm clouds swam up above like smoke. I was standing on the sidewalk watching the forest when I saw the dagger pierce the ground, every color at once. I wondered if I could hold it, electricity coursing through my blood. The horizon is about to erupt. I have watched the sky crack in anticipation.