The sky creaks as if it were a warning, the way a door’s hinges cry out for lack of oil. Clouds bulge and darken, whispering threats of their intent to burst. Slowly, the graying masses enfold the fading sun, suffocating the last glimpse of light. Silence submerges still air as the earth inhales and pauses. Time stops for a second, and then, as if it were rushing to resume its natural pace, races forward with the exhale. Water consumes the focus, blurring vision and soaking all not under cover in a coat of slick moisture. Droplets pelt the ground with the small pattering of tiny footsteps. Wind picks up speed, whipping the rain in a frenzy of directions. Whirlwinds of wetness strike at anything tangible. Then, slowly, the storm abates and realization is reached. Simply an evening shower. Bad weather must always pass.