The calm before the storm titillates,
tantilizes with its foreboding foretelling.
Sooner or later,
eletric bolts and gods’ chest-thumping
chase creatues into lairs, or snares,
to wait out the purge.
Venture out
with slowness, in silence.
Cleansed leaves glisten.
Sweet scents delight.
Birdsong resumes
in the calm after the storm.
Speak, Wise One...