I can feel it brewing.

The storm outside. The wind beating on the window, knocking slowly, angrily at the remaining summer heat. Challenging it again for the season.

It craves the mild winter, but the relief from the sweltering and unrelenting Texas heat will not come. The storm barrels into town this Halloween night, as it has so many times in the past. The children in their costumes hurry, hurry, hurry around, collecting their candy before the rain claims their evening.

The tower climbs higher and higher in the sky as the darkness attempts the to build. Thunder sounds in the distance, and large drops plop, plop, plop. on the windshield. As the wiper blades glide along the rhythmic beat of the rain calms the rush of evening.

The thunderheads stand ready overhead, statues of darkness in a light that refuses to give way to the storm. The sky appears in bands of darkness and light, as daylight begins to fade away, and children settle back into their houses.

The thunderstorm is no more. It is a memory as the sun releases its’ grip on the day. There is no more heat. There is no more strength. The summer will yield to winter, as it always does. Today may not be the final thunderous symphony of the year, but soon the thunderstorm will fade.

The silence. The cool winter chill remains.

The Ocean

The waves lap the shore unearthing the pieces of earth only to deposit them some place far away. I wonder what it is like to be that piece of a sand, a lone drifter in an ocean with powerful volumes of liquid and sediment, the waves lifting and carrying you.

Alone. No control. Washed away. Inconsequential.

The waves again tug at the shore, but this time they have a gift. It is magnificent in its’ uniqueness, splendid in the way that it catches the light and sun. The surf slowly deposits this gift on the shore of a distant land, no longer in the struggle of the surf.

It is peaceful. It is beautiful. It is home.