Storm Brewing

There is a storm brewing outside my window.
It is yet miles away.
The grey clouds are like the ledge
of my three year old's eyebrows before she launches a tantrum.
The wind has begun to pull at branches of my mulberry tree
Tossing them about mischievously
Tweaking buds expectant with green leaves and red berries.
Soon its play will turn rough
Like the wrestling of my eight year old twins
Begun in jest
Ended in earnest.
The low rumble of thunder
Grumbles across the miles
And into my stomach.

I love storms.
I exult in the whipping wind.
The gasp of lightning.
The triumph of thunder.

But today I take no pleasure in the approaching delight.
Today the thunder sounds like the bombs dropping on distant Baghdad.
Today the lighting flares like missile trails.
Today I wonder what expectant buds
What tender children
What youths full of hope and desire
Will be torn from the branches of their mother's arms?

Why, I wonder, does the rain on my face today taste bitter with salt?