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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The Storm Is Coming, Guy from Michigan

A storm's a'comin'.  Too many apostrophes.  Too much folksiness.  I don't have a down-home way of speaking.  Some people do, and that's nice as long as they're saying things I want to hear.  Once a guy from rural Michigan told me that I sound like a dictionary.  A dictionary, of course, does not speak unless you waterboard it, but I don't think that guy meant it literally.  I think he meant that I sounded uncool.  Additionally, I failed to wear my baseball cap backwards.  That was a sad day.  But a storm is still coming, a tempest, a low pressure front, nature's fury (nature: an abusive mother).  It will have a way to make everything equal.  Being uncool will not matter, if it ever did.
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The Storm Is Coming, Bird

A storm is coming.  Brightly feathered, getting their last-minute singing in, the birds know it.  The birds know a lot of things, a lot of songs about things, but mostly songs about sex.  Birds sing to get laid, like Andrew Bird, who also whistles with the same purpose.
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The Storm Is Coming, Blue

There is a storm coming.  It is blue.  It is bluestone.  Like that girl I once knew plus lightning, it is pretty but not nice.   I can tell this by its voice: a low rumble, threatening, indifferent.
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The Storm Is Coming, Fly

There is a storm in the distance.  The sun is hot on my sleeves, hot on my arms, and won't be around for long.  A fly tries to bother me.  Wait, fly.  Wait for the storm.  You will feel its fury, and your tiny little wings will be still.  You will see an infinity of drops.  Your disease will be washed away.  You will be a clean fly, a rebel, washed of poop, although that may have been your snack, and maybe you will be extremely frustrated.  I don't care.  I swat your kind.  I shot a rubber band at your mother.  Whatcha think about that?
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