Blow
I look down upon the clouds from on high, and wonder at how droplets have arranged themselves, without wanting to, so much more resolutely than any social movement, any uprising, any construct of social elements seems ever to have. From this vantage, I can see into the eye of a massive storm, where white bleeds into a blue cavity. I know there is power at that threshold the likes I’ll never likely witness, like the edges of the blades of a colossal turbine.
I’ve seen from a perch at the top of a mountain a storm pass slowly, deliberately over the valley below. I’ve seen storms dutifully cleanse the land, scarred by the detritus of industry. I’ve seen storms rip trees from the ground and casually discard them in the path of industry. I’ve seen storms compel the tide to crash on the shore, pushing salty foam through 15 feet of porous rock, spouting from the top like from a craggy, volcanic whale.
I haven’t seen a good storm in a long time. I imagine some mythic land, the land of fabulist dreams, where storms gather and rampage and mingle and form larger storms, überstorms, with a power diametric in intent but equal in capacity to that of the Nothing.
These are our giants, and I miss them.
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