The Storm

The attic room still warm from the morning sun darkens.
Flotsam litters the floor as the wind gusts through.
Ozone scents the afternoon air,
A prelude to the coming storm.
Lightning flashes,
Thunder rolls,
A musical act to accompany the evening meal.
Dinner and a show.
Dessert is drizzle and a cool breeze.
Relief from the languid haze perks my brain.
But,
Still,
The cats remain flopped about the bed,
Snoozing and unrepentant,
As I begin to write.