As the clouds storm the sky, the moment flees into the dusk, into stars studding a dark, desolate canvas, and as they dance in the sky, flickering, they become nothing but memories left to be relived.
Wind runs across the sky, jumping and weaving through clouds of gray. He is swift, a smart gentleman, keen-eyed, interested. He had witnessed, between Sun and Rain, against the once blue sky a spectacular conversation that had bled into colours, into spectrums of light.
They had burst into showers of rays, like a fountain in a garden, well-kept and trimmed, but just as the gardener had fallen asleep, Thunder had roared and had sent them scurrying. What is left is a trace of their spark, a faint glow in the universe that will diminish and fade, yet Wind still searches.
He searches for Sun, the quiet charmer, the one with ideas but the one without intent. He searches for Rain, the pensive intellectual, the one with passion but the one without nerve. He searches for the voice that had risen between them, the heated debate that had radiated, the time that had spun into delightful discussion, but all is gone and all is quiet, and all that's left is Thunder roaring.