January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment
He is a lightning storm: the charge of ozone in the air, the graying roil of clouds, rising gusts of wind off the mountain slope. And there are many faces to a storm – stages and sides, manifestations and transformations. It can be pounding, raging, and torrential, rain sheeting down to drench the earth. It can be sullen, growling, rumbling discontent with flickers of dry lightning behind low-hanging black clouds.
Or it can be almost laughing, almost mischievous, merry in flashes of brightness arcing from cloud to cloud, a shifting trickster breeze, shafts of sunlight opening and shuttering as the front flows across the prairie with a continuous drumroll and a whole flock of thunderbirds playing tag in the midst of it all.
A storm can be ecstatic in splendor, or howling in rage. It can build into pounding fury over hours and days, or spring full-formed from nowhere. It’s changeable, not always predictable – but remaining constant in its nature of storm, always charged and full-voiced. And so is he.
Lightning crackles beneath his skin and in his voice. He is elemental, sometimes inscrutably so. Containment and stillness are ill-suited states for a storm; he is restless motion, frequent movement, and needs space in which to breathe.
A storm can be destructive or ferocious, or it can nourish and provide fuel and power. Often it does both at once, and so it is with him as well.