a tempest for the almanac

The evening stars were gone, replaced by a spreading, ominous purple bruise of cloud. When the wind rose, in sudden violent crisscrossing gusts, everything went into motion. White cabanas shook, like staked swans flapping to fly, lavender bushes thrashed their thorny arms as if in panic, umbrella pines creaked and writhed like tethered balloons. Lightning lit the winding, stony stairs, like ornamental neon lights, as we’d run up the path from the beach. Shockwaves of thunder accompanied the flashes - there was no lag - the storm was there and upon us. We were laughing and screaming, like children chased through a dark Halloween funhouse. The first, fat drops of rain popped behind us, like a giant’s, arrhythmic, snapping fingers. As we reached the open, French, louvered doors, that led from our suite down to the shoreline, we body-slammed them against the tempest. And braced them fully closed with our backs, as if to vilify the natural courses of wind and rain with an animal will to break in. The lashing monsoon heralded our urgent, stormy union. We were like the storm - insistent, wild and untamed. All was revealed on that flashing, tempestuous night as need, euphoria and lightning lit the naked night . . A song for this: Walk Between Raindrops by Donald Fagen Hurricane Waters by Citizen Cope