The world is in four tones of dark:
The black, soot-puddled asphalt,
The shadow-colored tree line,
The deep blue sky and
The web of coal-toned cloud pushing in off the bay.
A clap of thunder sends a spear of lighting down to the north,
Striking like an inverted maple tree over the hidden train tracks
The white veins light up the cars and people pushing west,
No living thing in sight.
In response, the rain patters down.
Written three times online, at the McDonalds, each version erased by a thunderclap.