Thunderstorms

The water was calm.

You could hear it whistle when it reached the shore, and then pull away just in time for the children to sink their feet into the soft sand and laugh at the molds their tiny foot prints left behind, only to be swept away with the next rise of the ocean.

The storm was approaching.

Just beyond the horizon where the sun had once glazed, a powerful force of grey clouds maneuvered their way past the setting sun and into the tides, showering the vast expansion of sand and sea shells with rain.

The lightning struck.

The waves grew thick, and the children were rushed inside. The down pour of the rain seemed to make the sea rise with fury, and it frightened the land. The palm trees swayed against their will, and the birds took refuge beneath the docks. The children watched with fascination as the storm settled, and the thunder ceased.

The water was calm.

You could hear the remaining waves crash against the shore, removing the course weather from its memory. The seaguls took flight, and the children rushed to see the remnants the storm provided: their memory was not so easily washed away. Peace was ambiant.