Late afternoon, caught between the grip of night and day,  
I lie here, drifting in the soft current of my thoughts,  
listening to the rain perform its solo,  
a steady, unhurried melody tapping the windowsill.  
The trees are on their feet, swaying to the beat  
while the sky pounds out its drums,  
a little gloomy, like a mood that’s settled in for a while.

But I don't mind—it’s chilly, sure,  
but there’s always a blanket handy,  
and a hot cup of tea if I’m feeling fancy.  
The show reaches its crescendo,  
each instrument—wind, rain, thunder—growing louder,  
like nature’s band is playing its final number.

The wind, like some wild soloist,  
whistles into the night,  
and the rain, with a little more bravado,  
sings its heart out.  
The sky, well, it’s thundering now,  
making sure no one forgets its role.

It’s a storm, a performance so intense  
you can almost hear the crowd holding its breath.  
And then, as quickly as it began,  
the storm takes its bow,  
leaving behind a scene of broken branches and soggy lawns.  
The audience, too, seems to weep  
in the aftermath,  
as though they’re mourning the end of something grand.

But that’s the thing with nature’s orchestra—  
you know it’ll come back,  
with or without an encore.