The Storm

The  Storm

The wisps from the coal coating of sky shift with surprising alacrity. They remind me of a heavy set dancer light on the toes. There are cracks in the clouds, and you can glimpse a moment of periwinkle through them before they dance on.

The stringy leaves from tropical plants stretch out in heavy gusts of anticipation. Despite the constant pushing the air rests where it is, stubborn in its humidity. It is an air full of waiting and waiting in full.

I am in the middle, electrified even before the lightning strikes. I can feel it coming, the inevitable cry out, the unleashing of a who-knows-how-long build-up.

I spin around, my hair whipping my face, the dampness pearling on my skin. But I am not cold. The energy beads hold heat until the storm comes.

°°°

Later in the day it is glorious–a glorious rage of rain thrashes around the pond outside. There are strange red-beaked ducks who have taken over the banks standing up to the storm. They are in the direct range of the downpour pushing toward them but stand their ground. Their resistance fascinates me–I who thank my stars to have a dry space to go to.

Photo: Sergio Cerrato 

Text: Kristen Mastromarchi