Thickset clouds carve their way through the valleys of the sky, the sky is blackened at their coming. Somewhere a bird cries and the cattle lay down in their beds of grass.

The grass glistens already from the morning dew whilst flowers turn their back on the oncoming storm. Bracing themselves against the onslaught of rain.

Conspiring; banks of clouds tumble down the mountainside and bellow out their presence; the valley is illuminated by a forked tongue of energy.

The river runs low in it's banks, missing already the soft caress of rainfall. Yearning, the reeds reach for the skies, hungering for deliverance.

The clouds give way and a drop rolls out from the ashen banks. Crystalline, tumbling to the ground she is tapered to a point. Lamenting the storm, a Teardrop rolls down the cheek of the mountain.

The End

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