The Storm
At first, the sky just clears its throat: a low grumble behind the hills, a shiver in the washing line.
Then the wind arrives, shoving the gate, rattling the letterbox like a stranger who will not take no for an answer.
Rain hurls itself at the windows, fistful after fistful of gravel. The old oak groans and bends, its branches clawing at the dark.
Lightning cracks the sky in half – for one white second the whole street holds its breath.
By morning, the storm has gone, leaving puddles full of sky and a single, soaked sparrow singing as if nothing happened.