Feeble Recreation of the Tempest

It is the sigh of the east wind – a prelude for what is to come.

My muscles tense at the thought of the coming tempest, and at the one passed. In the silence, the petrichor continues its echo in the cavernous corridors between the clouds. It harks and bids forth the hearts of men, the half-hearted thunder but an imitation of jest of the boots of men. For never could the legions of man or beast contest or best Mother Nature. She, herself, creates the mold for intimidation. How intrepid lightning should strike the Tree; a crackle and deafening roar we only hope to recreate with the striking of our swords, steel on steel, sparks in an infantile eruption, our voices mildly guttural with our battle cries. Our greatest guns and cannons do not create the clamor that a mighty, howling wind might, felling forests and great stone structures; spires that have seen centuries crashing to the ground.

And yet the murmur before the storm… Comforting as a mother’s whisper and a father’s cradling arms.

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