Typhoon.

The adage of the calm before the storm rings eerily true as the day before the typhoon settles upon me. There is a quiet that is uncharacteristic, even in this calm countryside. The sky seems to close in. Clouds are thickening to become a haze, bringing a dullness to this muggy summer afternoon. It is coming.

Clouds rushing across the sky as if they were animated, bulging between a break in the mountains, churning and bleak. As night falls, the wind begins to blow, a constant and ever augmenting howl pushing, pushing; a spirit seeking life within an small crevice it can penetrate. My doors and windows rattle in cacophony with the pounding rain. It is here.

An aftermath. Trees uprooted. Leaves scattered like a green autumn. This one was not so catastrophic. Streets littered with branches are soon cleaned. Signs will be replaced on empty frames, banners hung, routines continued. A woman carries away a skeletal umbrella while her neighbor sweeps the debris from her yard. It is over.