storms come
and the choice is ours:
to run from it,
praying it never catches you,
looking over your shoulder at the beast as it lunges,
hoping it misses,
to stand still,
immovable,
the rock against which the water breaks,
knowing you can outlast it,
or to chase the wind and rain,
to watch as it moves ahead of you,
looking over its shoulder as you come bearing down upon it,
the thing the storm fears.