Weather

We fly straight as green arrows into the heart of the storm. The sulfurous wind whips our sodden feathers around us as we labor determinately onward, our focus as sharp and deadly as the spears of lightning flickering in the distance. We fly out of the warm vernal sun, into a forbidding shade with a purple hue and a sickly yellow underbelly. We leave the light behind us, and we never once look back. Icy drops of rain assault us, pounding our backs and our heads and our weary wings, maliciously trying to chase us from the sky; we surge upward, out of the torrential downpour and into the choking clouds. The wind gusts in dizzying eddies, and I struggle to keep your sable form in sight as you begin to fade away into the haze. I struggle on blindly, desperately hoping that I have not gotten twisted into a spiral, perpetually circling the eye of the great storm. Fear drives me on as I cling tightly to the belief that I still follow you.
The fog at last begins to weaken, and I push my screaming, leaden body on with a new rush of hope. Shafts of light pierce the enveloping shroud, glittering with defiance. I burst through the final wall, and when my vision clears I see you gliding ahead of me. Exhausted and aching, but flooded with triumph, we fly on through pale azure skies, as thunder rumbles on the horizon.