The Rainstorm

A/N: I originally wrote this for a writing contest, and I'll admit that it isn't my norm, but I find it rather vivid and exotic, in a sense.

Musky aromas, heavy in scent

Surround the land

To the distance

An army is coming

An army of silvers and grays

To parade upon the land

And cover the earth

In fleeting darkness

It comes

Gray's and silver's take over

The red's and gold's of

A late evening sunset

The air is heavy

Heavy with the scent of a storm

Closing around you

And taking you in

Silver clouds surround

The golden sun, blocking it

Shadows, eerie and forbidding,

Are cast upon the murky street

And the shadows grow

It starts

Softly, at first,

The first drops fall

They tickly the rivers

Creating small ripples

And casting a light dew

Upon the smallest of plants

It grows

Turning into a steady drizzle

Upsetting the oceans

Forming unadorned puddles

Only so big enough

To fit a child's wandering hand

It climaxes

Pouring down like a dark sheet

Raging against the

Tightly drawn curtains

A ceaseless rhythm

Pounds into

The storm's watchers

Trees bend and ache

In the erupting wind

Wind whistles through grass

Grass becomes slick and smooth

And the steady beat continues

It is finished

Clouds tear

Revealing the setting sun

Soft gold's are cast upon the warm gray's

The shadows leave with the army

Children stomp in the lasting puddles

Plants glisten with dew

That familiar, heavy scent becomes

And fills your body like the warming sun

While the army leaves