Thunderbird

There is the sound of rain. It begins easily, like the feathers of a sleeping swan rise slightly in the changing air. In the night, all the humours of the day are muted; clashing choler and strident sangue are replaced by melancholy and phlegm. Here we stand, watching the thunderbird.

It is young, although very old. It comes to us from the heart of dreams, the navel of creation. It is so dark that it is silver against the night, because it is blacker than any darkness. It makes a hole in the tissue of reality. Every feather is a frisson of electricity woven into the tapestry of the clouds.

Nobody else feels the rain yet, because nobody else has made themselves deliberately aware of the tiny droplets beginning to form around particles in the upper air. Like angels furling their wings, they begin to fall, too small to dictate where they will land. A horde of them descend through atmosphere, a host.

The air is getting drier and wetter at the same time. It is that season of the heart, when you do not realise that both things happen, and all things happen at once.

We await the thunderbird.