The thunder came scurrying eastward, sailing with the coming wind. A breath ago, the sky was clear like the lazing creek. Just a breath ago the sky was a vision of your laughing eyes, the mirth in your lips. All just a breath ago.
But the thunder-god has whispered his rendezvous with the sky in visions, the thunder-god has whispered the tell-tale sign of his coming. The signs were there, clear as the lines of your palm, and now the thunder has come to do its dance, and we must sigh and watch askance.
The thunder has come to dance, wooing the clouds in tearing claps. The thunder rolls on the mountains, dazzles the eyes in flashes and lashes, and I flee the gloom for the rattling eaves. In a corner, Mother fingers a string of beads, and mutters words lost to the roaring winds.
But on the hill I spied a maiden form, swaying to the rhythm of the roaring storm. On the hill you danced and danced and frolicked to the crooning wind. You were an apparition, no, a vision, a mosaic etched in my memory; the maiden and the thundering storm.
The thunder paused its clap, and stayed a while to watch you in the frenzy of the dance. The thunder paused its walk, and I could have sworn your laughter in the echo of the storm.
The thunder resumed its dance, but it was just a ranting thing lost in the tangle of your being. Like laughter, like my head; LOST.
