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Tink, Tink.
Water droplets falling gently upon the tin roof as they hit. 
Drumming. A constant sound on the rooftop to the beat of my heart while the wind whistles a tunes with its own beat. 
Tap tap tap at the window - the water knocking on the glass and splashes off the sill towards the ground. 
Falling.
Feeling the gravitational pull of the earth. 
Scratching. 
Branches waving to the wind, saying hello, as it whispers loudly the happenings of the past. The dark so silent, yet boisterous to my mind, the music that is made from all these sounds pressing in on me as I sit there motionless, listening, wondering.Waiting for it to disperse. 
But, they decide its not enough. 
Flashes of bright light in the sky piercing the rain with a sharp intensity and the sounds in the near distance. 
Rumblings. 
Thunder or that of hungry a stomach. 
Louder. 
Content with this Misery of nature this thing called storm. 
Such violence not needed yet so uncontrolled in its nature. 
Scared. 
Hiding. 
Animals in crevices wherever they find.
Rustling. 
The leaves like that of tissue paper. 
The fire burning intently, reaching upon the logs strategically placed among the ashes of previous. 
Crackling.
Ears hearing of a different sound. 
A knocking on the door.

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