Thunderstorm in the attic:

Nonsensical.

There is a storm in my home.

She rips through my hall, growling.

The ‘patter’ of rain begins to pummel my oak floor.

The breeze in my vent becomes an undying gale. She is furious.

But is she?

Is this snarl of storm anger?

Or is it excitement?

Perhaps her energy is being misinterpreted.

The growl becomes a slow groan as she retreats up my walls.

Into my attic, where she can breathe new life into her now exhausted body.

Once renewed, she will return.

Slithering down the beams,

Ready to reign once more.