Tuesday, June 19, 2012


Photo by S. Auberle

The only sounds this morning in this eerie quietude are low, growling thunder in the west and one gay bird singing.  The sky is painted in ominous shades of indigo and yellow.  I am uneasy, for it may be that when the clouds open wide enough, primitive gods emerge, and some ancient strand of DNA remembers and trembles before them.   As it should be, for then, for a little while, we humans are humbled, know it is not we who rule.  Thoughts usually veiled in bright sunshine begin creeping forth, parting the broody air--things we avoid, things that should remain hidden.  Jagged spears of lightning  cleave the sky, their after-thunder rattling the ground beneath me.  I'm--yes admit it--scared and suddenly it's too dark to see the keyboard before me.   Now comes the deluge and wind.  Outside a tiny spider clings to a thread under the eaves.  Perhaps she is small enough to go unnoticed by these mighty gods.  I pray the tender rosebush bent now to the ground will be overlooked.  Once upon a time I trusted there was someone who kept the spider, the rose, and me safe.  l would like to remember again to believe.  

thunder gods bellow
one bird begins again


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