Nuclear monsoon

There was no meaning in the amassed legions of grieving clouds along the horizon, gathering lost wisps whose their mindless desperation found guidance in the open arms of a trusting friend, and vindication seemed close at hand. A storm was being brewed that would last for years and years, erasing the purpose of the pulsing tides on the grayest shores of the sea and leaving the cycle of seasons capricious, an abandonment that stung less of betrayal than of sensibilities, and they were drowned.

Under leagues and leagues of water, they lay embalmed in the arresting embrace of water and weed, caked slowly into stone.

As the first droplets splashed at the feet of trees and hills, a subtle eloquence in the silence could be discerned but became quickly susceptible to loss and decay, the uniform and artless patter of precipitation chasing it away. Soon, water was sniping through the air, like shards of glass ripping through skin and flesh with undeterred proficiency, and over everything that lay gazing at the sky that day was a patina of age and a realization of struggle, a call to arms.

It rained.