The storm came, just as they said. It’s a rough one, too, by the look of it. There’s a long walk home for me this afternoon. Anyone foolish enough to fly in this weather will get clipped from the sky with one swift bolt.
I don’t mind the walk. It’s easy to ignore the world below your feet when you’re always gliding high above it. There are little things, too, like the smell of rain on rock, and the sound of plummeting drops, and the utter quiet as all other life hides in dry, quiet places. The cracks of thunder, the flashes of lightning, the echoing memory of each blast carrying for miles in the peaks and gullies.
The fear of being soaked weighs on me more than the water ever truly will. I must remind myself that in the summer months, a quick douse can be quite refreshing.