The Sense of a Storm

Echoes and Foreboding

It comes not through taste or sight, sound, or touch, or scent, but through something other, another one of our senses the majority somehow forget we possess. It is a pressing down inside, something foreboding, ancient, deep and utterly, utterly untamed.

The clouds build, towers of moisture tumbling and billowing, trying to outdo one another, ever higher, faster and faster. Their bases widen, their tops level and they begin to move together, energy gathering, a meeting of lovers, their dance electric.