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A deep, inevitable grey reaches beyond the expanse of the sky, caressing the hills plastered against the horizon. A beckoning hush falls upon the mangled branches that twist into an intricate web above me. The wind drifts in a gentle breath, restraining the vicious rage within itself. Its words linger in my ears like an incoherent whisper.

Like a nostalgic memory, the air envelopes me; an intimate presence, drawing me into absolution. Its warm, silky fingers brush my skin and toss my hair lightly as the numbed brunt of the breeze attains a cold edge. Around me, a crimson wave trickles delicately from the crooked, wooden fingers of the trees, casting an abrupt light against the dull air; the blood that drips before the tears. The leaves settle on the hardened ground like the silence upon the mist. A pause envelops time’s existence, and I dare not breathe for fear of disrupting the menacing serenity.

Anguish possesses the choking calm just before its facade shatters. Suddenly, as if by force, the sky’s fury is torn from its being and propelled to the earth. The violence leaks to my humbled feet and swallows me. The sound is of the dulled cracking of glass, while the smell is a musty, heavy stench that suffocates me.

The profound red of the ground struggles to catch the lost tears, but they are unable to grasp their turmoil. The torrent wails against me, attacking me; blaming me. So vast, yet so lonely.

And in time, the blackness that impeded the purity of the rain begins to evanesce, slowing the rivers to streams. A kinder light greets me, here, offering understanding and comfort.

The white softens the sun’s glare, but it stands as a bland mask. Behind its shallow image, however, the knowledge of repetition threatens it, yet is remains calm. A fresh breath fills its lungs and is exhaled onto me. The storm has departed.

© 2016 Mae Hanson