Climatic

The air is metallic, a taste of old pennies. A zombie sky hides in our eyes as an extra in a walking movie. Torpid vapors hang over the mind bleed an avian infrared blood as vision. Stale winds smear statically charged branches, there is a fizzle of white noise in the hedgerows. Anger is rampant, the anger is a malignancy, children feel and know this as the very truth. Adults believe in systems and patterns, explanations always come after the land is wounded. This is not weather, this is the way days and nights grow tired of each other. Such climatic intimations do not move on, they enter battery held cameras and the electric hives of humming fears; are recoded as warm or cold fronts funnels and zones of uncertainty. Later, cats are found in faraway places alive but forever haunted by the spaces between each night.