there is electric in the air i taste it on my tongue wet my finger to test the wind breathless – i wait run cool hands across the sky calling under my feet mycelium are threading towards the light hearing beyond the horizon waiting for the storm.
ungainly awkward i throw clouds at the sky. useless as tears in the rain my fists roll thunder along the silent backs and damp green creases of my mountain home – the trees look away as i walk. what use is this anger that cannot spit lightning or defend the unspeaking with a smite or…
loud like the taste of rain on my skin the cicadas sing the end of summer. drawing by Tim Hewitt-Coleman
don’t give me nice words and quiet nods that clink amongst the cutlery and crooning current affairs. before i stifle yet another yawn lets talk real words about the weather or anything really. wet skin smelling like pine needles with mud between my toes is the weather. shouting at the sky to bring down rain…