i stand in my yard watching the weather turn. it’s only drizzling but the clouds are dark and thick and the sky between is a swirl of green and gray and purple, like a fading bruise. the wind blows so loud, deep and rumbling like an extended burst of thunder. leaves blow sideways, gravel stirs and smacks my legs. and i just stand there.
i’ve been this way since childhood. many times i can remember my grandparents coming to pull me up off the front porch during violent thunderstorms or while weaker hurricanes passed. i’d sit; listen to the trees whistle; soak in the humidity until my clothes stuck to my skin; breathe.
everything smells so different when it’s clinging to itself.
after a while i retreat inside, but only for a second, to grab a joint. i wait for the wind to quell a moment, light it behind my hands and settle on the top step of my front porch to watch the world blow away.
