Pablo is tired, he cannot move.
He lays down in the dirt, ready to give up.
Everyone else is already hidden in the shadows.
Though the shadows are themselves hiding.
The hillside has turned brown, it is ready to burst into flame.
The trees have long since stopped waiting, they, like Pablo, are ready to die.
One thing can save them, but it is not expected.
No one believes any more.
How long has it been?
No one can remember, no one even tries to.
Then, a phone call.
Ten in the morning, from the valley west.
Storm.
It’s coming.
Tonight.
We are waiting.
The heat is infernal.
A few clouds drift in.
A few more. The sky begins to darken.
The minutes pass, the hours too.
Not the heat.
It intensifies.
Diabolical.
The Devil’s making.
The wind freshens, picks up, insists.
Some of us scuttle.
The trees sway, twist, bend to the will of the unseen force that now rips through them.
Rendering them impotent and broken.
The violence is frightening, yet still we wait.
And then the waiting ends and the lightning breaks the darkness, thunder sounds the alarm and the rain starts to fall.
Crash.
Drown.
Pablo struggles to stand, turns his parched lips to the sky.
He waits a little longer than the others.
Tasting redemption at last.
Then runs.
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