I lay in bed last night with the curtains open, and watched a wild night unleash itself, against my bedroom french doors. Trees flailed about helplessly in the wind, as if under siege, and cast frightened shadows against the wall.
The lights went out.
Save for the glow of lit candles nothing but a dark sky, and the faint hope of light in the distant houses across the drenched city streets.
Unseasonal. The rain has made itself felt these last many days, and is not yet spent. Earlier, Skye and I looked up at the mountain in the fading light of the afternoon, and tracked the rain as it moved horizontally along its path. With purpose. Not the lazy kindness of an early morning rain, but something stronger, as if intent.
I felt un-nerved by it. Somehow. Feeling my own puny presence, in the still of the room, as the storm bashed at the windows and rattled the doors. Felt keenly, how primal the threat of nature is to our existence, and how foolishly we disregard that truth.
In the morning, the torn limbs of broken boughs lie strewn on the asphalt. Birds call out to their fallen young in distress, and the trees sway with a loose surrender. And even now, as the lights switch back on, and the sun turns a pale cheek, I am left feeling that man needs to take better care. Needs to notice, that there is work to be done.