She was a pluviophile,
born in the monsoon times.
Overcome by strikhedonia
she fled her village,
sought solace in the woods.

A sturmfrei soul was she,
content to burrow away
on bright clear days.
Her cottage well hidden
from prying eyes.

She lived for the darkest of storms.
Aroused by lightning strikes,
thunder her love-struck mate.
They danced together in downpours,
her hair drenched, clothes clinging.

Townspeople burbled about her,
bumfuzzled by her ways.
Over time she became the Other.
Easier to will her out of existence,
they stayed inside during heavy rains.