Here on the Hill

Safe in the Tackroom

Huddled in a corner with my cat Nermal, I listen as screeching winds pass through every part of the barn except this room, the tack room.

We stare at a small but growing puddle in the middle of the room where drops of rain repeatedly splash.

Plip, Plup, Plip, Plup, Plip.

This was due to a small crack in the ceiling.

The air that was once shooting from under the door was now slowing to a complete halt.

I glanced over at Nermal, she was sleeping.

The room still felt cold and damp but I knew that the storm was over.

By:
Andrew Mancuso