Thunderstorms contain living beings.
I know because
I see the wrinkled face of a thunder giant
In every mature cumulonimbus
That billows and blossoms skyward
To dominate the sky with its great mass.
Tonight, at eventide,
The cloudless sky of the day exploded
Into a congregation of Thunder-spirits.
As I looked south
One throws back her rose and grey
Hair into the rushing winds on high.
She leans her head back,
To feel that gale
Ruffle her long, ice locks.
As I look eastward
An old ruddy face
Juts his red-bearded chin westward
In defiance to the setting Sun,
Who had tried to escape
Before triggering the pent-up power
Of this covey of cumuli
And releasing the Spirits within.
But the heat of the solar orb
Lingered too long,
And soon from around the horizon
The Thunder giants began to warm up,
Tossing lightning bolts
Among their towers.
A few drop the bolts to the ground
Some sparking fires in the forests below,
Others blanking cities into darkness.
Oh how they grumble and moan,
A low guttural clearing of throats
When a bolt is misplayed
And they are forced to bend their huge bellies
Tonight their play
Will last many hours,
A spectacular game
Drawing viewers of all ages
To the windows.
The action starts slow and distant,
But as it approaches our viewing stand,
The play increases in speed, power and volume
As the Giants struggle to toss their bolts ever further.
By the time the players have moved overhead
And finally fade to the north,
We the viewers are spent and ready for sleep,
But as I begin to close my eyes
I hear one last loud and prolonged rumble
A victory cheer
And the low grumble from the vanquished.