Stormy

There is a storm building.

I am on my front verandah watching the clouds; for a brief moment before there was a rainbow in the sunset, but now the sky is bruised and angry. The clouds are swirling, different levels excitedly circling the sky, some black, some green, some heavy with rain. I frightened a dogwalker before, standing at my front gate balancing my camera to take pictures of the sky. Excited and breathy, waiting for the storm to close in.

I need this storm, I feel almost as if I've created it. That the darkness inside of me has gathered just as the clouds have, to rumble and spew forth. There is wind here, wind that chases me, tosses my hair and the edge of my grey satin robe, floating it wide around me like a cape.

I can feel my fingers tingling, feel the energy that is vibrating as the storm gathers. It will be brutal when it hits. I want it to lash. Want it to be my voice when I have been lost for words all day. My skin is prickled, waiting for the first drops of rain to fall, waiting for the air around me to coalesce.

The birds were singing before, warning of the storm, but it is eerily quiet now as we wait for the first spray of the storm. I have felt it all day, the way the sultry heat sucked at my skin, taking away my breath to the skies. It is there now, hovering above me, dark and sullen. My temper, held in check, bruised and swollen.

According to the weather bureau, much of the violence is South of here, lashing away from my hill, but it's coming, and I'm waiting for it. This is not a friendly storm, a loving storm, a storm to gently cleanse. It is a storm to scream by. A storm to curse as I become the air.