Black Clouds
The clouds are black, and pregnant,
waiting,
ready to deliver life,
to the Earth below them.
Moving into position,
roiling, shifting, bumping
one another, in their slow rush
to destiny.
Lightning flash illuminates,
showing off,
backlighting the softly jagged outlines
of the individuals
within the herd, moving
in unison, the front line of
what will last for days.
What do they hold, these clouds?
Rain? Snow? Something in between?
The presence of them
extends to the ground,
the air crackling
with the electricity of their
excitement,
the fury of their plunge toward
release,
the delivery of what they carry
to those who observe,
and those who do not.
The moment of approach is marked
by rapid entrance of…
different,
of shift,
from warm to cool, to
moisture in the breath.
The air touching the storm above
is full full to bursting with
mischief.
It shifts and moans restlessly,
blowing off hats, shaking trees, and
chasing leaves down the street. Playful,
angry,
charged with expectant life, and
moving with the front,
announcing its arrival, and
playing out an invisible drama.
The clouds are the storm.
Moving as one, they become
something greater.
Unfathomable.
A thing of beauty,
and power.
They are life, unfolding
against the rocks.
Terry Tischmak, C 3/2024
