Internal Weather

 

 

Cumulonimbus

These are the words we use when we

talk about how we are more than our bodies:

the terrestrial storms moving

beyond the immediate sky

 

heaping up and overthrowing the forecast

darkening with thick shadows,

bulking out wetness melt

in a song of vertical altitude.

 

Magpies umbrella fledglings with their feathers

as drops the size of rain

pelt the scape of the city’s ranges

a fine tantrum rendition.

 

How small are the beginnings?

Trigger neck bristle, the empty heart pump

forks to break the massive sky into segments

eggshell crazed and painful,

 

showing us we are chick small – from blue egged

nesting – needing the time for feathers

to alter ourselves into bird bomb razor;

to become weather itself.

Rain

Of course it’s raining and how, the world is full of water talk there is nothing else on the radio. Even the moon’s out this evening, looking casual in grey among the clouds and how the light changes in her eyes. On the ground, rain sifts itself, joins itself and parts again. It is so long in the making holding hands for a few  moments of fall. Then, good bye and into other arms.

The gurgle as it regroups, finds itself reunited all over the rooftops and then into the tanks. We have caught the rain, but only for a while. It will find its way away from our pipes and drains and channels, it will regrow the river, move the mountain, reach out its long tidal arms to try and embrace the moon. It is the hiss of static. The buzz that means nothing but rain on the wires.

The rain loves gravity, all these chemical force fields that we happily drink down and bring alive as we know it. One long branching. One long making water into us and then dispersing it again. Of course it’s raining. The soil drinks it down, the planet of clouds and radio waves with the moon hovering there like a luminous  shadow loving gravity more and more every moment as it bends light through the sea to make the colour blue, then throws that last raindrop into your eye.