The Storm

A scurrying wind records its course in a feverish play of patterns rushed across a grassy hill. In the distance, through folds of grey, flashing threads of lightning weave a ghostly web strung briefly between the mind and eye. Rising plumes of cloud consolidate and fall as rain. The storm builds weight to free itself from what holds it here, its furious pull heaving on the end of a line as if to force my fingers to let it go and plummet downward like a severed kite emptied of its rage - becoming little more than a flicker curling up under the edges of an evening, as you go on sleeping far away from it all.