The passing storm

The landscape was sinister. Dark cloud crawled across fields empty apart from the the haunting corvid call. The rustle of wind slipping through foliage. A kind of presence, observing, waiting. The clouds gathered themselves together sucking this unsettling atmosphere up until they hurled it back down in hard pellets of rain on a spiteful wind.

Then it was gone. The dark scurrying hurriedly away to reveal a very different day. One bright and friendly, it’s warmth wiping away the raindrops that slipped down the grass like tears.

A photo of a leafy oak tree on a ridge in a golden meadow against a blue sky half covered with white clouds

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