A storms putters its way from a secret place down low. Rain grows dark a mile off, like icing sugar through a sift, only stained blue-grey.

Blue sky buffers off into the distance awaiting patiently while electric blue lightening forks silently flick tounges at the deserving iron ore ground far below.

On the wind comes blowing page into hand. Whistling wood and willow. I take it in, the deep murmuring of something ancient, awakening the forgotten. Tunes of the deep. It must happen for its in the earths blood, a mad but wonderful cycle which our early ancestral selves understand at a whisper from within early past.

it comes, it bellows.

I take shelter

shelter from the storm, because it's what we've always done

its respect, and awe, nature has no flaw