It rolls like a gentle drumming, faint, safe. It whispers of the coming of a changing storm, but it’s so far from here. It bumps across the darkened skies and settles. Threats of turmoil, chaos, and peril in the bass notes from miles off. For now, the distant thunder is little more than a warm reminder of the other storms, the ones that did not deliver on their threat, the ones that breathed life into the dry flora, the ones that lulled you to a deep restful repose.
The earth quivers as the storm bellows and its flashes come closer bring the noise. Flash, then a tremolo of deep resonance that shakes the ground. Distant no more the storm has arrived. Terrible power and fearful instruments. It holds the chaos to make change, to make a new world through tearing away the old. The storm works its hands of entropy, spoiling on your well-laid order. Flash. The rumble is a deep, rollicking laughter that pulses the foundations you cherish.
A storm is always coming, change is already here, and you lack the strength to resist. We all do. We ride through the storm as it rolls over us, its swath of might through our lives and we are changed, for better or ill, changed. Weathered but not beaten we ready for the next storm and challenge the skies and its rulers. Change will come, I hear it in the distance, its rumble warning. I hear it, I will not cower, I will choose to be the storm.