A whistling wind tears through the trees above my aunt and my’s tent. The leaves rub against each other forcefully, destined to rip a hole in their siblings from friction. The branches ache, squeaking and whining like a child pushed too far to the edge. Twigs snap, limbs fall, and trunks lean with the wind. 

The night sky above us is a sick black, coughing up clouds that sneeze a downpour of rain. They groan, singing a song of thunder cracks and lightning whips. They are loud, they are miserable. The groan and moan through the night, never growing tired, shaking the Earth to its core.

But the clouds' complaints are not enough to scare the creatures that lurk in the trees from coming to visit us. Hooves beat against the dirt, claws scratch at bark, a distant howl is lost in the wind. A solitary raccoon finds his way to our campsite, scrounging for a crumble of food. His paws dig open a tin-foil cover on a bowl of fruit, allowing the sound of his find to reach us in the tent.

The burly pitbull we have with us perks up, nose twitching feverishly and ears pointed forward, desperate to hear. The raccoon’s presence has alerted him of an unwanted guest, and with a growl that would make the clouds jealous, he rips out of the tent, determined to protect us from the trash-panda within our site.

He barks wildly, his nails scarring the dirt in wide berths as he tears after the raccoon that has already made its way up a tree. His mouth nips, snorting and wheezing as he stands up against the tree, jumping with his jaw snapping.

My aunt stumbles out of the tent tiredly, thrown in the wind. I watch through the torn zipper as she wraps a tight hand around his collar and drags him back. They return to their places, bundling under the covers to protect from the water that seeps into the tent.

The night continues, raging on and bending the sides of our tent. It morphs and molds with the wind, snapping the metal poles that hold it together. The roof collapses, showering us with a collection of freezing water. I sputter, shaking my head to rid my shock. My aunt and I reach up and push the roof back, folding it over in hopes to create some cover. We slump down when we have succeeded, attempting to wipe the water off of our blankets. Leisurely, we tuck ourselves back in and fall asleep to the sounds of the storm swirling around us.

In the morning, we wake in a puddle of water, our backs soaked and blankets soggy. Our tent is dismantled, losing the wrestling match to the storm severely. The walls are bruised with discolored markings from splattered mud and rain, it reeks of a sweaty order that originated from my aunt and I tossing and turning in our watery sleep, and the poles that support it are exhausted from their fight, slumping over and drooping. 

I poke my head out of our beaten tent, turning my face up to the sky. Eyes squinting, a soft wind whispers over my lashes, kissing me playfully. I inhale deeply, the smell of petrichor filling my lungs and causing my heart to ache. My sleep may have been disturbed by a wild storm, but I would live through it a hundred times over to experience the Earth’s life once more.