Storm Clouds

A buzz-saw wind peppers a far horizon. We hear the nails falling from an impossible distance. Damage will be done elsewhere; instinct squeezes a grey glue out of blind brains. A razor-teethed storm is coming. We share this piddling dread with puddle dancing sparrows, they suspect, we suspect, a suspicion clouds all eyes. Many are all thinking too much making the sky edgy with thought. Bundles of nerves have brought us here to listen to the engendered, the endangered, the ponderous tread of the shuddersome. It is then we know that we are all Acts of God in a ravening, infidel world.