I Stand In The Path Of The Wind Rushing, A Stampede Through My Bedroom, Something Inside Me Is Cooking.

I stand in the path of the wind rushing, a stampede through my bedroom, something inside me is cooking. I feed on the sight of the sun sinking into the mist below hills and trees that sway and rock on their feet like captives, stationary, bending to the will of a mighty force in motion, something is starting, perhaps foreboding. I listen to voices of those, uttering in a language I am not born to understand, and it would be asking too much to know what they say, and know what they know, the rain falls as the sky gives in, too much inside. Clouds pass, orange fades into blue beyond blackened hair like dread, the trees are taking deep breaths, plucking drips pierce the fuzz of the wind and the gasp of motors and wheels turning far off. The ones that despise the clouds are the ones quick to forget that when the sky opens it’s eyes and bares it’s teeth the cold bites bone deep. Slicing, searing, dicing up fingers and toes and I smell smoke in the air, and I know something is cooking.