I run, leg muscles straining and lungs burning, on the uneven trail through the woods. Leaping the roots which rise up to trip me. Hands raised to protect my face from the outstretched arms of the trees and the branches sent whirling by the wind. Above, the creaking boughs bend until I am sure they will snap. The blur of fur and feet ahead of me urges me on.
We set off that day in the eerie calm between the storms. No caw of crows or chatter of sparrows. No swish of foliage dancing with the breeze. So still. Nothing moving. The world held its breath.
The storm comes when we are far from home and defenseless. An howling onslaught. A merciless gale. My feet pick up the pace. The crash of something massive falling behind me, a dark blur in my peripheral vision. I ran.
Overhead, the boughs creak. They moan. They clap together like they are talking. Fearful, excited, gossiping voices. They are talking about the storm. When I come to the end of the path and break through the trees, I turn, triumphant, alive, to see their long fingers reaching for me. Reluctant to release me. Inviting me to the dance.
