April 6, 2013


It's one of those days here in the Pacific Northwest. 

As I sit here in an east-facing upstairs room on this early spring morning, I watch. And listen. 

In the mysterious, crisp, supercharged air, it feels like anything might happen.

Outside there is a high, linen-like haze shrouding the blue sky. It serves as a backdrop for grey and white clouds of varying shapes and sizes, all scudding across the charged, stormy atmosphere. Perhaps they are fleeing in terror. Perhaps they are hurrying away to somewhere else in frantic anticipation of some great unknown excitement.

The sun tries to watch them, the clouds in flight. The linen-hazed sky-curtain veils the sun's eyes, but every once in a while, he succeeds in a strained peek. With his thick, orange glow he sees the grey and white travellers leaving him behind. He stays. Stoic. Unmoved. Satisfied. Here to sustain those left behind in the unceratin air.

The wind drives the clouds ever forward, onward, accerlating their flight. They leave a vacuum in their wake. The still-bare trees shudder violently, as if to snap, under the gravity of it.  My window is cracked. The air moves across the small space now and then with great force. It creates a deep music as though I am at the bottom of a great, empty glass jug. I am still, waiting. I take in the sound as if something important is coming. As if it speaks only to me.

It feels like anything might happen. And I don't want to miss it.