A Storm is coming

I can smell the storm coming in from the west before I see it. Its moving slow and brings destruction with it. It smells like tepid bathhouse water and regret. It screams inaudibly as it rolls across the sky. It is malevolent and has aims beyond my understanding. The cows know more than I do. Last evening I witnessed one sacrifice itself against a tree while the rest of the herd stood encircling it, moaning in low dissonant songs that vibrated the windshield of my car. The fish in the pond have begun to push themselves into the rocks trying to escape. The water rolls like its simmering, filled with uncontrollable feeding frenzies as those trying to escape fail, and break apart against the rocks. I can feel it picking at the center of my mind, probing for my true name. It will never find it. My true name is hidden deep within the weeping tree in a box of skin and bones of men once lost at sea. The regrets of these men hold it secure; masking its true allegiance with their confusion, thinking it is their own. When it cannot find what it is searching for it will move on. It needs to feed and will waste little time where it cannot be satiated. While it does enjoy the hunt, it is driven by baser needs. It has not left yet and lingers just beyond the hills. So for now, the cows continue to moan and the fish break upon the rocks of the shore, and I sit still thinking of nothing and moving as little as possible.