The Storms

Brushing back from the storm that lay to the open pasture in front of him

He stops

Towering in perfect stillness as if his body is of one atrophied muscle that has locked in an eternal spasm

He thinks

Leaving the relative safety of his novice shelter conjures up doubt in his fragile pride and manliness

One step can lead to victory, glory, and a swell of confidence he has never quite possessed since he had the ability of cognitive thought.

An orchestrated wind now taunted him with its frolicking swirls and false charges that bit at his cheeks then dashed away like a bothersome fly.

Crackling clouds pitched over head while the sprawling rain drops seemed to pelt his world into submission with a constant  appetite.

What had only moments before been an empty expression now shone a slight smirk that detailed both the fear and the brave.

His pulsing chest heaved, tugging the buttons on his shirt enough to wrinkle the fabric. A flashing streak blistered the air in remembrance.

Droplets had begun to trickle on his brow and shoulders through the slats of his shelter, staining the cloth that draped across his back from where road dust had settled before his worry grinned.

Another heavy breathe, and a falsely poised stare

His first step is one of retreat,

the only gift he will ever give to his storms.

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