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.


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