It isn’t loud, the sound of impending doom. It isn’t quiet, but it isn’t loud.
I’d always assumed the opposite.
Instead of a sudden dislodging of one’s solid footing with a sudden tap-tinkle-tumble of Grandma’s antique urn that had rested too near the mantel’s edge –
I expected a fanfare. I anticipated an alarm. At the least, I thought there’d be a Horseman.
As I clutched my children against the shivering wall and listened to the silence that shook my world, I learned: there’s only the rumble of the moment.
It isn’t loud, the sound of impending doom.
Written, then considered for Carrot Ranch‘s prompt.
©2020 Chelsea Owens
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