Typhoon Tropicanus

By Chie Theresa Fujioka

Like the roar of waves on the beach, the rushing wind hurtles through the silky silver sheets of rain cascading from the sky. The leave of trees moistened by this waterfall soon release their small clarity to the dust with a plethors of "pch pch" sounds. The trees dance unique dances, moving in harmony with the overwhelming brutality of the wind. The sky, although a light grey, is not uniform, and I can see the streaky clouds race away towards their vaprous destiny. Across the neightbor's roof, imaginary lines and swirls formed by the wet sky-nectar defy gravity and push towards the top before disappearing into oblivion.

As time flies by, the dancers dance harder. The drum still rumbles distantly backstage, not yet rolling forth its tremendous bass. The violence and fury of the dance slowly tears the dancers into shreds as they partake in the frenzy. The stage is losing its velvety surface as the carpet is worn and flattened by the footprints of the rain. Piano to forticimo the music elegantly floats, oblivious, ignorant, wild, heartless: a ballet. Now it quiets, now threatens loudly, the omnious brush of bass promising that the dance is far from over and that this is but the prelude.

Like the sound of a thousands swords being pulled from their scabbards, the leaves swish and slice the air. With another roar, the wind crashes into itself, throwing spray into the void. Past my stillness, motion tears natures dress...

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