Under a white oak on the crest of a ridge, 

holding the reins, I wait for the storm

knowing full-well the risk.

Wind rustles and rattles the leaves,

booming timpani thunder beats my chest,

the sound of heavy rain on leaves

moves through the timber, approaching,

trees sway and bend, defying logic, not physics,

leaves show their silver backside, 

meadow grass is laid flat,

the horse's eyes grow wide in agitation,

he wants to bolt as the gust-wind hits us,

cold and sure, the storm is on us,

and oh, my heart does pound.