Melancholy Mountains.

June 10, 2018.

Summer storms are a funny thing. One minute the skies are black and all hell is breaking loose, yet the next, the skies are blue, birds are chirping and Mozart is playing.
Such a stark contrast. The natural progression of a summer storm. The calm chasing the chaos. The cat chasing the mouse. Thunder, angrily lashing out against the Earth. Lightning, striking down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger. Storm clouds, consuming the horizon. An eerie silence, before the howls of the wind- a thousand chained beasts screaming in unison, deafening all in its path.
All for but a passing moment.
A single turn of the hour hand.
And then, just as suddenly as it arrived, it was gone. The banshee thunder, replaced by the song of the Sparrows. The strobing lightning, expelled by the gentle rays of the sun. The menacing clouds, chased away by a pearlescent cotton candy familiarity. The air, crisp and savory. The world is beaming. The storm, eradicating all the evil and anger. The bitter and spite.
The world is bliss- if only for a brief moment.
The storm had come to pass. Loathed and evaded, overlooked for the vital role it plays. Unrecognized, but desired.

The storm. A friendly foe.