Coda

Thunder’s end comes in waiting, a breath held for a final crash. Rain rises in pitch, from a low growl to a hum that carries the absence to rest. The wind slows to a languid pulse, each rush softer than the last. Clouds thin to sheets, that the moon’s glow may bleed through.

Familiar aches ebb from old bones. Shivering children dry their eyes. A stray dog sighs and lowers its weary head. The storm gives way to the gentle rumble of a world allowed to sleep.

The wind falls away, the drops soon to follow, and as the clouds finally part they let in just a sliver of the new-made dawn.