Irene

The warm drops begin,

larger than a drizzle, tear-shaped pellets.

The big rain assaults the forest, pounding the leaves.

White noise raises its voice so you can no longer hare the birds.

The brook rises and gushes over the rocks. Usually,

a pretty sight, but scary now that the flood is coming.

You hurry down from the mountain as the trails become streams

rushing the same way you're going.

The water flows everywhere not keeping within the brook banks or trails.

The storm picks up trees, now boulders, tossing them bumping into the next one

with a crackling thud.

The percussion accelerates throughout the mountainside forest,

taking down trees, slamming boulders into each other.

A chased, feeble stick of flesh, much weaker than one of those big cedars that just knocked down another, you scramble frantically down the rushing trail, running from your doom.

As the forest clears, the trail flattens and you run for your car. Up to its wheels in gushing water, you tumble in and start the drive down the mountain road. What's left of it.