A BATTLE OF NATURE

By Thurman W. Adams

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The western horizon grew dark, a sign of the enemy's approaching attack.
The air grew still, birds stopped their singing, animals gathering together in fear.
The flashes from explosions, the roar of cannon fire echoing afar and then back,
the sky grew darker from the gunpowder smoke, a warning of a battle so near.
Civilians ran for shelter, only the stalwart soldiers, firmly entrenched, held their ground.
At last you could see the fire from the cannons' dark throat, the roar, all around.

The sharp piercing flashes and the crashing noise, made all shudder and quake,
and the soldiers, in field of battle, fought for their very existence, for another chance to live.
The fiery projectiles, among the soldiers, would land, so close to some, their lives it would take.
Some soldiers fell dying, crashing to ground, others stood upright, and hope they did give.
Deadly bullets from the air fell around us, killing and wounding, others to miss,
as the battle raged around us, many tasting deaths' bitter kiss.

Finally the battle was over, the sky clearing from the smoke of the cannon's black maw.
Over the battlefield lay the dead, the dying, with the wounded and unscathed ready to fight anew.
The summer thunderstorm had finally passed, in its path, it had cast a deathly pall.
Trees hit by fiery sharp lightening lay flat aground, others not hit but wounded, less leaves, many, not few.
In the garden lay the injured; ripe tomatoes with holes, com stalks in shreds, apples and peaches from off trees.
The icy hail had done this all, what a mesa to our fruits and vegetables, nothing went unhurt, not even the peas.

The summer thunderstorm had brought both death and life, all things starting anew.
The apples and peaches, on the ground, would rot, as so would the tomato, a hail hole in its peel.
Some trees, hit by lightening, would die, but others not hit would taste the morrows sweet dew.
The thunder and lightening, the wind, the rain and the hail, all these the trees, fruits and vegetables did feel.
But as surely as there comes death, it is always followed by newborn life,
for the thunderstorm brought rain to parched earth, and through moist soil, sprouting seeds would knife.

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