Washout

Meteoric warning of storm's danger, still awed nonetheless by its brute force. And those giants along the tree line— submitting to its dark, amorphous power— bow in the darting whip of its tongue as though being torn to shreds by its teeth and wilted by its breath is their portion. The curtain of rain that follows in its wake curries the earth and leaves it green, sunlight glinting on wet, dusky boulders like the ones you hauled in from the forest to surround the flowerbeds. The rain so heavy it left the lilies crushed, like my heart, ripped from my breast that day you left, and I, bowing like the line of trees in the rain.