The sky was a blush of smudged grey, as if a new future had been drawn in pencil and then softened by a giant’s hand. From the distance came a slow and low rumble and the air was water-heavy and thick. The wind that had barely been enough to ruffle a flag, was now keen enough to rip clothing from a line. Olive stood, her hair tousled into an almost tornado spin, this storm was going to be etched in their memories long after it had passed.
Through a frame of verdant foliage came a fork of white-blue lightning. The midday sun had been silenced to an almost twilight grey. The rain beat down in such drumming waves that the tree canopy could have been simple bare winter branches. The air that had been heady with floral scent an hour ago had become a cold scream over the skin, raising goosebumps and billowing the clothes. Until they reached the comfort of home, there would be no shelter from this sky-born rage.
In the car headlamps the blizzard became a chaotic constellation. Through the all-squared forest of high-rises, along the wide avenues, the wind sang winter’s song. The air had grown teeth that day and nibbled those brave enough to venture the streets. Perhaps on summer days this place is heady with the aroma of street food, yet now it is only the mixture of ice and gasoline. Ted re-wrapped his scarf around his neck, tugged his hat to almost cover his eyes, and trudged toward the cafe.
The rain ceased as if it had an “off button” pressed by an unseen hand. Light came in as party streamers, reminding the forest below that it was still the middle of a spring-day. Though the birds had sheltered under wing and branch as the torrents fell, the rivers and lakes were glad to take their fill. Then, as streams and waterfalls chattered on, upon earthen tones made richer from this soaking, our heroes began to sing once more and let the beams warm their hearts.
In that storm she stood tall as the rain washed clean off her and onto the blacktop street. As all others ran for shelter, she welcomed the rumble of skies as an old friend, her hands upon her head as if she were bathed in a powerful hymn, as if it all were no more than a rock-n-roll cathedral. Then, slowly at first she turned around and around, until finally she danced as if in a broadway musical.
To the sun-bleached grey, upon the industrial hour, came the lazy thunder. Feet dragged. Hard soles clomped. Faces were as grim as the obsidian sky. Soon the rumbles below were met by rumbles above and the first bolt cleaved the heavens. The soaking came not drop by drop, yet as a New Year’s plunge.
Condensing water in leisure drips as stormy arrows strike my pane; and all the while I hear the howl that bays for me to stay within, to ignore those at whim of such malicious archers.
Storms came to quench the earth that communed with the beech tree roots, the soil that held blessed water until it could be given to its sweet leaves, each of them shaped as a raindrop heaven-bound.
The clouds that gather, a silver-fade, from the strongest of grey to soft whites, have command of the skies today. Yet what they promise is life-giving rain for the parched soil and a chance for new seeds to grow.
After every storm comes the sort of sunshine that goes all the way to the soul, the sort that makes one glow a little brighter within. This storm was just the same, the strong gusts and the kind of rain that danced in the streets, yet after it was so glorious, it brought the most honest of smiles.
The storm left everything strong standing, the upward branches and the roofs that kept us dry. It came to wash everything anew and show us what was rotten, where repairs and nurturing work were needed. It was the boldest storm anyone can recall, the rain determined in a wind that moved as a well run locomotive. We can all pray for the fine weather, but it takes the best of us to welcome the storm and show others how to thrive once it passes.
The silver hues were as molten silver, swirling in steady and radiating ripples. I love the sky before a storm; I love the greys of every shade and depth. I could swim in the atmosphere so subtly electric, alive with an excitement for what is to come.
Mist the target in thickest fog, rock the branches in howling storm and yet my arrow stays true to heart, for I am the huntress of legend. I bring the end to days of ledger, an end to owing and owed, an end to to bowing and bowed. I send word from the world beyond, I deliver the letter that brings real truth, that which renders equality both easy and obvious to all. And when the parchment touches skin, when it is absorbed into the blood, when the vision clears, you will see as I do, for there is no mist for me; neither is there wind, for this miss there is but victory.
The Compass and Clock Storm
Bubbles rise to storm pellet's pound,
All around the swamp festers,
Be it slurry ankle deep,
Be it the foulness of rotting fish,
Be it the howl that steels the merest hint of heat,
Escape,
Escape,
Up,
Up,
Climb to the mountain peak,
Enter the calm,
Let the clouds be your rolling fields,
For this rage of skies,
Stretches around compass and clock.