Instinct

A slow breath brushes the landscape
making animals and vegetation quiver
through the sixth sense we humans lack.
Nature knows what the village doesn’t;
a storm is approaching.

The hot, slavering breath of Mother Nature’s beast
rushes out in increasingly frightening bursts.
It’s impatient, thinking of its victims.
The muscles of wind and water tense.
Howling with delight,
dripping heavenly saliva,
screaming of the damage it will do.
Full, almost pregnant threats
promising the worst for those unprepared.

It rushes at full speed,
barreling any and every thing out if its way.
It has no pity for those who fear it.
Quivering trees are uprooted,
quavering animals robbed of their breath to fuel its own.
Nothing is spared as it attacks the earth like a plough with anger management problems.
Chewing, swallowing, digesting the meal,
savouring the taste, belching forth the refuse.
For hours it rages, seeming never to be satisfied,
its anger not seeming to ebb no matter how much it damages.

But then its breathing slows from the frantic respiration
to deep calming breaths and, mastering itself, it slows,
looks over its shoulder at the havoc wreaked
and with a final howl of warning,
reminding the village that it
will return,
it settles
down
to
sleep
until
next

season.