The storm bursts from blackness
just as the clock strikes the hour
of ghosts and nightmares. 

It approaches, an army of ogres
whose marching feet shake the ground,
whose battle cries split the clouds.

It banshee-wails around the eaves,
assails the tin roof with a hundred
angry fists, demanding entry. 

It throws knives of fire at the earth.
The forest struggles to run, bends,
twists, seeking to escape burning. 

Come morning, the air is soft, the fields
a placid green. Only injured trees, lost
limbs, speak of the battle of giants.