The Storm Is Coming, Fish

It is quiet before the storm.  The lily pad is still.  On it sits a yellow flower.  A man fishes, but the fish are hiding -- the little ones in the big ones' mouths.  It's a storm agreement they have, although I'd be lying if I said the big ones didn't occasionally snack, perhaps convinced it would be their last meal, perhaps just ignorant of their contractual obligations, perhaps just hungry.  How else do you think they got big?  Not by merit.

The wind cools.  The storm points its purple finger across the sky, the point of which will soon be here on this rock where I sit.  Will it annihilate me?  Do I want that?  Likely not.
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