The Storm That Never Left

When fear delays the vote, the forecast favors power. But in this forest, sunshine wins when voices rise.

A mighty storm once rocked the trees,

With thunder rolling through the breeze.

The forest shook from root to crown,

So Owliver called, “Shut voting down!”

“We’ll pause the polls,” he said with care,

“Until the skies are still and fair.

We’ll lead alone through wind and rain—

Then vote when peace returns again.”

The forest nodded, hearts unsure—

But hopeful that the skies would cure.

And Owl did lead with steady beak—

At first, for every branch and creek.

The squirrels lined their ballots neat,

While frogs practiced their voting beat.

But Owl proclaimed, with chart in claw:

“A raindrop’s risk could wreck the law!”

The forest asked, “Can we vote today?”

And Owliver blinked the clouds away…

“Not yet,” he said. “It’s far too soon!”

“Too soon?” they gasped. “It’s clear by noon!”

Though sunshine danced on every root,

He donned a raincloak, thick and brute.

“The weather lies!” he sternly said,

“A rogue cloud hides above your head!”

He printed signs and played a jingle:

“A drip today could make you tingle!”

“It’s not suppression,” Owliver said,

“It’s a Pause for Protection Protocol instead!”

The sun peeked out with bashful grin,

The clouds had danced their last-spin spin.

But Owl still wore his rainy boots,

And thundered, “Hide! It’s storm recruits!”

He built a throne from bark and broom,

Then sealed the vote room with a plume.

“Until the clouds confess they’re done,

This crown will guard you, one by one!”

He waved a chart of swirling dots,

“According to these soggy spots—

The risk of drizzle, though not seen,

Is 92 percent… of *might have been*.”

He flashed a graph of scribbled lines—

“These squiggles prove we need more signs!”

He named the phase “Mist Protocol Stage”—

To last from now… through undefined age.

The frogs began to form a band,

They tuned their songs, they raised a stand.

“We’re ready!” croaked the ten-toe crew.

“Just let us vote—not sing on cue!”

Sprig and Milo raised a cry:

“The danger’s gone! Look at the sky!”

But Owl just hooted, bold and proud:

“A leaf just twitched—prepare the crowd!”

Then Lantern stepped beneath the bough,

And faced the throne with furrowed brow.

“Owliver, this storm has passed—

Yet fear, not truth, now holds us fast.”

Boom! went the bell. Plunk! went a drip.

Thunk! went his chart as he gave it a flip.

“Danger!” he warned, “from one small breeze!”

While squirrels just rolled down voting trees.

Owl blinked up at sky so wide,

And sighed, “Perhaps I’ve over-tried.

I meant to shield, not overstay—

The storm is gone. Let’s clear the way.”

He nodded once, then bowed his head,

“I see the fear was mine,” he said.

“I wore this crown to shield, not bind—

Let free debate no longer wind.”

The forest met beneath the tree,

Where every creature came to see.

And Owl, though proud, at last stood down—

And shared again his ancient crown.

Then Sprig and Lantern chimed with glee,

“Let’s guard the right to disagree!”

And Milo added, bold and bright,

“Our vote must shine like morning light!”

The creatures cheered and gave acclaim,

Then named young Sprig to guide by name.

“With every voice and feather heard—

We’ll lead by vote, not thundered word.”

Now rules include a golden clause:

“No storm excuse extends forest laws.”

For fear that rules when storms are gone

Just drizzles on… and on… and on…

---

Did You Know?

Emergency powers can help during crises, but without limits, they can be abused. In real democracies, rules are in place to make sure normal voting and rights return after danger passes.

✍️ Why I Wrote This

Inspired by real moments when those in power delay elections—not with outright force, but with fear, uncertainty, and "justifications" dressed as protection. I wanted to show how even well-meaning leaders can slide from caution into control, especially when fear becomes a habit, not a temporary guardrail.

Owliver begins with good intent: to keep the forest safe. But safety becomes an excuse, then a pattern, and finally a throne. This fable is a gentle warning for young readers: that democracy is delicate, and the right to vote must be guarded not just from bad actors—but from good ones who forget to let go.

This story is for anyone who’s been told “now is not the right time” to speak, to vote, or to lead—and who knows deep down: if we wait too long for perfect skies, we may lose the power to step outside at all.

—Ross Boulton