The Thunderous Roar

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I trail this long and muddy path,

I hear the leaves in their long bath

I think to go through undergrowth,

But to this path I feel some oath

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The storm's sweet rhythm calms me,

I hear a crunch and pause to see -

A dead snail clinging, to my boot

Slime adorns my brown wet shoe...

.

"That mark you've left is so minute;

Not a hawk will now miss you..."

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I catch up, with my halted pace

Drowning that silvery slimy trace,

Once again on, this long muddy trail,

Head bowed down, cautious of a snail.

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My face grows cold and softly wet

I move on past, determined yet,

Ever set in my long route,

Not free to move my own brown boot.

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My darkened coat and one wet sock,

Silently cling, before light gives a shock

A Lightning flash a godly lash!

A bright white flare filling the air!

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I pause in awe - "what was that for?

For day to be night and storms to be bright..."

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Onwards I stride, away from my stare

Through the watery mist-filled air;

The thunder comes patient and great

And only as a god, can its earthly shake abate.

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As I go on a stream joins my side

All enraged by the mountains wet tide;

A flood appears and drives me to veer,

Into the trees and scaring a deer.

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A few steps fall until I see water so clear

Another stream, long-since settled here

And there within, a thing once living

A corpse, wet, from the mountain spring.

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The stream turns wide in a scythe's bend

And I wonder how, the man met his end.

Afraid of the even rain, I first think to leave

But second I sigh, and stay to grieve.

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A bright blue flare again fills the air

Vibrations shake, even the man's wet hair,

Sweeping low, and from the storm free

A hawk descends through the canopy

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I think to see more, of the deathly scene

And rounding a tree another is seen.

Held in his hand, I see a cruel knife

The same that ended this second man's life.

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I stand for a while, fixed in place

And try to see guilt, in the killers face,

Blood on his hand in spite of the rain

A record of all the murderous pain.

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I wonder what brought his evil to be

and then I ask, "what was it that brought me?

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Just the rain and things far above

Things that move me with a nudge or a shove.

Lightning strikes as waters begin swell

Already cold feet, forbid me to dwell.

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As I move on I start to understand,

All things here are moved by the same hand:

Not the one on the forest floor

But the one that sounds a thunderous roar.