Clouds gather,

angels flap and fly away;

a sweet old lady wonders

“Oh dear, a storm is on its way.”

A storm is on its way,

always in some state of advance.

That's the trouble.

The storm itself is just a chance for rain.

Lightning explodes at the periphery.

Inside lights flicker,

everything shudders

with each subtle quake;

a child screams,

pulses pace quicker,

faces pale,

lips udder prayers that what is not yet here be over soon.

The anticipation of impending doom

so often anticipates

a doom

that rarely impends.