the changing mind of a thunderstorm
...It is late afternoon, and a thunderstorm rolls and grumbles quietly in the distance, announcing its arrival like an inevitable ship drawn to a port it has no tears for. I can see a thick dark grey cloud in the distance, like ink slowing unfurling in water. The air feels heavy, and the storm grows closer, flowers dancing in hesitant anticipation of its arrival and fierce advances upon their fragile limbs. Will there be lightning; my favourite awakening spears, a proud testament of power and danger? Regardless of our current state of mind, we must bow gently for the storm. He is nature’s way of reminding us of her roughly skinned kin - her dark alter egos - essential nemeses of the great white witches in this ongoing seesaw cycle of balance. The cloud has spread, its edges touching skies beyond those in my vision. Shall I sit here and wait… just as I contemplate I see triumphant blue skies pushing their way toward the darkness, the clouds having thinned to white beacons on their cloak, and the blue is deep and luxuriant; so the seesaw goes up, and Nature’s kin are playfully pushing and pulling each other into clumsy thrones that shine too static for their journeying needs. Everything changes. We should be glad, I suppose.