Stealing time & What’s yet to happen.

The storm raged unmercifully, steaming shrouds of clouds raced and writhed hauled by the wind frenzy, thrumming with an omen of destruction. Flashes of deadly lighting tore trunks and branches apart, setting stumps and dried grass on fire. The steel and desperately dark skies released sopping drops wetting down the fuels. The smoke burned my lungs and made my eyes watery. My horse broke out from the fire line, his stocky limbs moving faster than I would have thought possible. The muddy soil was no match for his hooves and in their wake, sods were flying in an arcing spray. I ducked, pressing my head low unto his quivering neck; his flowing mane whipping my face.

Soon, a wall of rain drummed against our skins, turning the soil into slushy goo. Its whirring noise blurred with his feet pounding the ground and my labored breathing. I had taking the old path following a hunch; stealing time from what’s yet to happen. I knew I was gambling. But what choice did I have? As I frantic rode the storm, I prayed for a sign. Before I reached the edge of the woods, the sight on the bridge told me I was right to follow my guts, and that my prayers have been heard.

 

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger from Pexels

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