a spot of prose

The wind went "whoosh". Thunder clapped. Rain fell. But no one saw, and no one heard, and no one felt.

The rain fell in torrents, and lightning flashed, the wind blew, and the sky roared like it was the end of the world. It was funny, in the odd sense of the word, since the voices of the sky were so loud, so very loud, and no one saw, no one heard, no one felt, or thought anything was remotely out of place.

But no matter, for what rain, what thunder, what wind, and what lightning that came to pass, dwindled down into the lightest little shower, its soft pitter-patter against the ground, and a breeze that tickled the tree branches nearby. And still, no one saw, and no one heard, and no one felt.

The sun peeked out from behind fresh white cottony clouds, as if to say, "Here I am.". A tiny spectrum of dispersed white light formed. It was tiny, but it was beautiful nonetheless, as the last drops of the storm before fell into the waves of the sea below, the sounds they made like a child running on the beach nearby, and a light wind passed through the land, softly caressing the leaves on the trees. And at last, people could see, and people could hear, and people could feel, and they looked on with wonder and said, "What beauty this is."

Where were they when the thunder roared, when it threatened to tear the sky in two?
Where were they when the rain poured, when it threatened to flood all the lands of the Earth?
Where were they when the wind blew, when it threatened to tear buildings off their foundations and send the structures of the Earth into ruin?
Where were they when the lightning flashed, when it threatened to raze all of civilisation to the ground?

One may have perhaps asked these questions.
But then again, no one had seen, and no one had heard, and no one had felt.