Her Perch

She chooses to perch in a park. Up high in a tree centuries older than herself, that's where she stays. Her perch is between two branches where she can sit and watch. Some days she might move trees, from an oak to an apple, or a maple to a birch. It doesn't really matter which tree she's in, as long as she is in the same park. It's her park, after all, she's claimed it as her own.
She watches people come and go, some with family, some with friends, some by themselves. Some come with pets, some come with lunches, and some come with any manner of things to entertain themselves; books, frisbees, bikes, phones, the list could go on forever. She's seen it all, of course. She watches them all as they come and go, some during the daytime, and some in the dead of night. No matter what time, she is watching.
Sometimes she is noticed. Most often by children their little eyes still able to accept what they see. Their parents, however, are a different story. No matter what the child shall say to try to convince them, few parents ever actually believe their children, or check for themselves what is really lurking in the treetops. Maybe they shall even catch a glimpse of her, but even then, few will acknowledge what they have seen, and even less will admit it to another.
Once in a while, she will be noticed by the older children, the ones who know not to go telling their parents. They will look up at her, their minds for only a second clear enough to really see her, to see what she is. But older children are far too soon becoming adults, and their minds are clouded with the same unbelief that the parents had, that she couldn't really be up there. It must be the heat, or a stunt of some kind. So they go back to what they were doing, believing that what they saw was not, in fact, what they really saw. Just a figment of a childish imagination.
Thus, she continues to watch. She watches people come and go, one after the other. She watches children come back to the park each day, the sames ones coming back frequently as children and decreasingly often as they grow older, yet she still watches.
As if she is waiting for something.

His Perch

His perch is up high. It's above a busy highway, on a streetlight that has never seemed to work. At times he moves his perch, to another streetlight or another highway, but up that high above all the cars in constant traffic, every highway starts to look the same.
Where he is, he is almost never noticed. Up above the traffic, above the smog and dust that the cars belch out, more and more by the minute, no one ever thinks to look up. Too concentrated on where they are going, no one takes the time to notice their surroundings, to notice he is there.
Everyone is too caught up in their own lives, in where they're going and how to get there. The passengers are too preoccupied in their own accessories, their ipods, their radios, their video games and their cellphones and whatever else they have piled into their cars to distract them from their lives. On and on they go, one after the other, never noticing what they are missing.
He, on the other hand, simply sits at his perch and watches. Watches car after car go by, every one of them ever restless, never content with where they are, always wanting to keep moving.
So he watches them.

Thunderstorm

Watch the rain wash down and wash the windows clean. Watch the rain wash down what was left of the light. Watch the rain wash down all my insecurities, wash the rain wash down the worries of my life.

/rhyme, *ahem*

Why is it that thunderstorms always seem to come at night or at dusk? Maybe it's just me, but... No, it's not just me. thunderstorms always come at night. Maybe they're nocturnal. Perhaps thunderstorms are asleep during the day, and their snoring results in light showers. Or maybe thunderstorms are in fact caused by some great legendary beast, nocturnal of course, that wakes up most often in the spring, stretches and unfurls wings the size of countries, and in taking off creates such huge gusts of wind that they whip the sea into the sky in such a way that thunderclouds are formed.
Or mayhaps I have been watching too much pokemon.

The roundabout point I am on my way to getting to, is that thunderstorms have a bit of a mystical air to them. They strike when it's dark outside, maybe so that no one can get a good look at what they really are, then rain down such a ferocious monsoon of water and sound that any bad feelings of the day are washed away. In their place are sparkling puddles beloved by little kids, and the occasional new spring flower. They bring the strong smell of wet blacktop and the happiness when parents see that mother nature decided to open up its springtime car wash.

I love thunderstorms.