The thunder's beating my house about the ears. Or should I say the eaves?
Inside there's the steely whistle of the teakettle. It's steamy and industrial and trying to pretend it's got more point than the thunder, but then someone lifts it from the stove and it shrieks and dies away.
There's a little low lightning. A subdued sparkle like the one thy comes from a frayed wire that lost its coating.
Then the thunder persists, like a stomach growling.
That's the thing about thunder. It's clumsy and ungraceful, thunder, bumbling away down under the horizon where no one can see it. Like some kid crawling under the table cloth. It's the most anti-social of all the elements. It's sullen, but you still feel like it talks too much.
And thunder always gets the last word.
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