Morning sky clear and bright. Rays glitter. Hope is running high.
Little signs of atmospheric changes. Trying to ignore the fidgeting and hyper focus. Trying to morph it into playfulness.
If I ignore the brewing storm it will pass by me. I will call the rain kisses and the wind will remind me of flying.
My insides are scrambled up because my body won’t fall for my wishful brain’s tricks.
Sky’s overhead are dark now. The air presses down. In the old days the storm moved inside toppling shelves and breaking glass.
I make preparations and breathe in the electric air.
The winds are fickle and the storm passes like a sweet summer downpour.