IWTS No. 39

I was the sound of thunder over the tree line, the flash of lightning far off, and the sour twang upon the tongue before the storm. In the early night, summer hot, all the houses and their people were waiting. Excitement and grandiosity, tension and vibration; a toddler played on the porch steps with jacks and marbles; the lamp hung still and moths made noises like paper, burning. A wind, a scout sent forth from the storm, rustled the brush in the forest, and the boy looked up in fear of a monster. Nothing, but the wind.