The sky thickens like bruised ink over the Gulf,
heavy and restless.
Clouds pile in dark towers,
swallowing the horizon where water meets air,
their bellies swollen with electric promise.
They roll forward, unhurried at first, then urgent,
swallowing the last thin light of afternoon.
Wind rises sharp from the south, carrying salt and heat,
whipping the surface into whitecaps that hiss and break.
It pushes against the palms on shore, bending them low,
tearing loose fronds that spin like desperate prayers.
The air turns alive,
charged,
pressing against skin with the weight of something ancient stirring.
Then the rain comes—not drops, but sheets, a sudden veil drawn hard across the world.
It hammers the waves,
merges sea and sky into one churning gray roar,
drumming on rooftops and decks with relentless rhythm.
Lightning forks inside the clouds, illuminating their cavernous depths for split seconds—
veins of fire revealing the storm’s hidden architecture—
before thunder answers,
a deep chested growl that vibrates through bone and water alike.
For a moment the Gulf belongs entirely to the tempest:
wind tearing at the crests, rain dissolving the boundary between heaven and tide,
clouds marching like slow gods across the expanse.
Then, just as fiercely, it begins to ease, leaving the air washed clean,
the surface still trembling,
and a faint silver edge of light breaking through the retreating dark
TenPastTen 
Leave a comment