Reid Shilling: The Bay
By James Sanderson The Cruel, Unforgiving World

Kyler Hall: Nature Has Moodswings Too

I reluctantly roll out of my warm, blanket covered bed, and slip on my matching sweat pants and sweatshirt.   I trudge down the stairs and get to the front door.  Looking through the small window in the door, I look at the rain flying in every direction in a hellfire.  I cautiously open the front door, and I am invited by a spray of rain right into my eyes. I rush down the porch steps, and find a reasonably dry spot under the canopy of my garage.   Looking straight down at my wet slippers, I see water running down the meandering cracks in my asphalt driveway.   The wind has gone mad and it is shaking the trees that encircle the driveway.   I look at the fenced in coy pond, and the now dead spring flowers getting whipped around by the wind.  It makes me think if the frogs and fish that live and around the pond and what they are doing right now.   A branch across the street rests on a power line, making me wonder if I will even be able to type what I am typing now.   This morning reminds me of a thrashing war.   The rain is flying everywhere like bullets, and silent screams from the bare trees who must be freezing.   Above me, the rain pounds down on the canopy, and the wind splashes me with an occasional spray of water on my cotton clothes.  I feel very uncomfortable, and deem it appropriate to make a dash for the front door.   I cover my head, but it was no help because the rain was coming in sideways.  I get inside, run up the stairs, and notice I am still the only one up.   

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