(A creative piece written during a thunder storm in the Sierras)

Thunder began to speak shortly after lunch.  He was quiet at first, speaking in a murmur, almost not wanting to be heard.  Apparently anxious that he would not like the sound of his own voice.  Then, discovering his sound to be sweet, he is emboldened, and swells his volume until it is a roar.  The roar sinks into your bones, covers your skin.

I began a race with him: first to reach the lake!  He traveling through clouds and sky, I traveling on legs and granite-accented trail.  I think I’ve bested him as I glance periodically at his progress over the red fir, limber pine, and sugar pine valley to my right, noting the curtain of rain he drags with him – the most delicious hue of grey.  But, then I realize he intends to surround the lake, not just reach it – I was never acknowledged as any contest.

Wind suddenly joins in the symphonic chaos.  Evidently jealous of all the attention thunder was drawing to himself, wind makes up for lost time – changing the rhythm of the air from hardly a breath to a gusty wave in the flip of a switch.  His whisper is more of a song, and it rallies yet compliments the thunder’s roar.  The lake I was racing to has become a sea – wind creating white-crested waves at the surface.

Rain begins just as I reach my tent.  A gentle patter on my rain fly, like finger tips knocking.  The sky is crying (I think) for the beauty of the grey symphony.  I cry out for it too.  The sky’s tears echo my own yearning to add something to it, a harmony to the melancholy melody.  Maybe it is less like finger tips knocking, and more like the fluttering of a thousand tiny wings, calling me to wake and take flight with them – “don’t you want to live before you die?”

The sound transforms into a lullaby, accompanied by the crisp cold of the air, that chills me externally but warms me internally.  I’m lulled into day dreams, into melancholy musings.  I’d prefer to never wake from this.

I wish I could replace my bone marrow with the hearty courage of thunder’s roar, keep rain drops trapped in my hair, swallow the sensation of wind’s breath I feel on my cheeks and neck.  My blood sings for this orchestra of gloom.  If only I could capture it inside myself.


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