The sky lay flat, like pressed wet charcoal,
the sheen muted as if rubbed into canvas
under a heavy hand. There was silence.
A pre-turbulent horizon gestating its thoughts.
Diseased and sallow mixed. An orchestra waiting
for the conductor.
The quiet pressed in. Words were ineffective.
Comfort needless. The ground underneath felt
unsure of the moments to come, knowing full well
of the existing forces above,
like armies facing off, each with the
best at their reserve, ready for the call to arms…
and then….the firsts rumble of thunder escapes
from the carpet of clouds. The condition
is imminent.
Roger Singer 