My first piece of writing on here for a while, I have stopped travelling so much, and time is full of work and commute. I am trying to keep all my time together and use it well.
What happens when we use up all the names for storms that whipcrack race to us across the Atlantic? Ready to lift trees, roots and most of our life. We weather the storm, the ground opened and the push pull vacuum. We weather the clawing at the windows, scoured walls, pock-marked by debris as the dust settles to a silence, a wait. Here now the milk moon is clear sky bright and full to drag the tides high, to drag us all into pitiless grayscale light. We are such poor shadows without the sun, in the new silence of un-named storms. We stand and watch on opened ground, waiting for rain that clears the sky, breaks the shadow hold on watchers hidden in the doorways. Waiting for spring and the tidal race we find the world has turned her back on us. The weather is coming, and the world turns with the coming storm.