The storm comes. The woman sits on her perch at the top of the waterfall and pulls her arms around herself as the wind sweeps down as herald of what is to come. Small flashes of lightning briefly appear here and there across the sky as the purple grey clouds come closer. What shall she do? She doesn’t quite mind getting wet. Indeed, the water rushing below her provides a constant fine mist that has been keeping her cool this hot summer afternoon. But the clouds do not look very friendly anymore. Her heart races as a crackle-pop-boom sounds across the sky. She really ought to run off. The cabin was a quarter-mile down the path and if she ran now she might just make it. But her poem. Her notebook page was half-filled and her writing had run away from her thoughts just barely keeping pace with her heart. The writing sprawled from coherent to slightly chaotic but there was a sense of the real about it. And now? The clouds are almost upon her. The sky is a slightly slickly shade of green. She blinks once and inscribes a couplet upon her heart. She jumps up and off the rock and off down the grassy path she runs. A drop falls. Her poem will keep even if the drenching rains fall. The pages of her notebook might not. She runs with all her might, holding her notebook under her shirt even as her clothes begin to soak through. But there is the light twinkling. There is the porch and there is the open door. She laughs as the thunder shakes the earth.