Run.

The rain started at 8.

Then the thunder, then the lightning.

The cat jumped into the van, seeking both dryness and safety.

The wind was with the rain, rattling the tree, braking the branches; some fell on the van.

The cat hid under the bed, watching.

The old man, never sure that this wouldn’t be his last, sat on the bed by the open door, breathing deeply.

Not scared.

Invigorated.

He breathed in the wildness, the untamed energy of nature, the coolness after the day that had been so hot.

So humid.

So, waiting.

Waiting.

Sometimes it seems that is all he does.

Earlier he had started to clean the floor.

The bathroom.

But why?

He prefers the van.

The outside tap.

The jug of water.

The cat prefers outside too.

Two cats in a tin van, one young (more or less) one ancient (more or less).

Company.

Friends.

It seems strange to admit that but it’s true.

They talk to each other, share their love and fear of this storm.

One below the bed, one upon.

Under

Over.

Over, under.

Rover.

Wonder.

Wander.

Yonder.

Run.

Run.

Rain.