It’s a gloomy morning, the sun is far, far away, and a thick mass of cloud sits like a solid grey roof above. Shadowed branches buck and flail as the wind, besieging by night, mounts for first-light’s assault. People gaze dismally through straining glass.
“I hope it doesn’t rain” someone remarks.
But I do. I hope the clouds swell and blacken and extinguish the feeble light altogether, shrinking the world to blind confines as the baleful canopy descends. I hope wind, wrathful and ravenous- overruns the city, pounding stumbling bodies and blind faces- threading howling tracks through thin streets, and sweeping across broad avenues, throwing up swirling torrents of dusty debris. I hope the clouds open to release long amassed waters which plummet in solid monstrous sheets to collide with the earth- wave upon wave- battering head and ceiling- creating sudden gulfs of icy water that divides buildings, and swift rivers leading to deep, black seas. I hope the sum of nature’s power and majesty is revealed wholesale, in magnitude beyond mortal comprehension- that of cataclysmic impact or violent eruption- so that the spinning world of man comes to a shuddering, deadening halt for a time and we must stand awed by what is yet before us.
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