Prelude To a Storm

As with all preludes there is much mummery and mockery, a delirious glee to be just below the overhanging wave, yet dry enough to prance and mimic the oncoming monster. Now the windowpane is dampened by a stupor of uprooted clouds, if you touch its cold bare face a crushed lambency drains into fingertips, like sand through an hourglass. The sky has been secretly smoking, it has now rubbed the earth with a last glowing stub. The cabin fire flares as the generator coughs up stutters of apprehension. “It’s going to be a big one,” proclaims the sequestered voice of a wind-up radio; a nervous twist in the sudden hush jangles a teacup. The prelude is still prepping. Goats have to bawl first, The cat must count its fine bones with each pensive lick. The ‘far-away’ suddenly jumps at you, even though you have been watching it leap across your mind for hours. The hours themselves have left the stage. The prologue was overlong, now the first act has arrived before its end.