The bell-tower strikes four as evening falls on the eve of July. Yet, not a soul seen, not a footstep heard. Standing among the church yard, a distant bark of a resident’s hound, and an echo of two crows,

The calm before the storm.

Dark and sinister clouds roll in from the east. A bolt of lightning and a sharp crack of thunder bellows.

Those clouds loom with distaste and fury. A glower upon their face of many faces form,

A deep breathe in, a deep breathe out.

Wind, from the heavens, it repels

The playground, a child’s favorite, starts its deranged tune with a pout,

The sea-saw warms its vocal cords. The swing-set readies its instrument with an ear piercing shriek,

The merry-go-round joins in, screaming its awful lyric,

The disharmonic hymn is cast off into the wind, flooding the church garden with it.

The hanging chimes adds to the chorus with a foreboding melodious jingle,

The rustle of trees and flowers, like a stag through the leaves and the brush.

The toppling of a flower pot—its shattered sound like a drum in nature’s song.

 Into the neighboring cemetery, the wind sings its eerie carol.

Stirring headstones and sifting mulch. Razing a tree of one hundred years and irritating the resting lot.

Playing God with a collapsing structure,

The wind, howling like a starved ghost, remains unrestful

Colliding with opposing winds like sides at Civil War,

Their bridge erupts into a hollow screech as the winds twirl into its final outro!

Fighting over king’s castle,

The howling winds, become one in destruction

The fearful landscape, watching nothing but reduction.

One last prayer, from the faithful to the almighty.

The wind-strum storm, gone at last.

Leaving disaster in its wake,

Gone is everything from the recent past.

The cellar door of the crippled church opens with lives a-plenty,

Greeted by a rainbow, an apology, and shouts of relief.

But on the ground, nor near or far, everything tossed about,

A detoured letter of greeting from one friend to another, clings to a tilting flag pole.

The wind-strum storm has passed, leaving its heavy toll.

Ended has its verse of twisted music.

Ended has its chaotic ways. Lost without resurgence are the surrounding things,

But grateful, with joy and peace, are the survivors. As they sift through the destruction and look to mend their wings.

Photo by Nikolas Noonan on Unsplash