Night Storm

A washed out rainbow barely holding rings the moon. Across her distant face rush herds of silent clouds, blending into each other as if pursued by some unseen dread – a music of vapors, fluid, strange, amorphous harmonies. Debussy would have understood, he whose music summons the primal language of night’s wanderings and mysteries, whose lugubrious tones unresolved that tap the roots of our ancestral impulses, fearful, crouched like panting beasts that cannot understand, when questions had not yet blossomed from the tree of life and ignorance, and we could only stare with freight and wonder, speechless at the lightning, rain, and thunder – huddled, trapped in the loins of our cowering ancestors.