a segregated sky
You tell me you don’t like storm clouds, especially the ones that hang over the horizon like they’re about to collapse on whatever city or town they’re hovering over, like grabbing hands, the ones that turn day into night. You tell me this because patches of them are forming in front of us, crawling into the frame of our windshield as we drive east into the city. Behind us, in our small town, everything is still clear. I check the review mirror, adjust it, see the sun dipping into the earth. You harshly slap your visor up and curve your head under it, propping yourself up on the dash in front of you. You stare up. Before a drop of rain even spills, you tell me you hate them – a strong word for anything, let alone clouds – and that you don’t know why, you just do. Probably because they’re filled with thunder and lightning and violent currents of energy, you say, though there’s no evidence to support these particular clouds hold such power. It’s funny, I say, when we were kids, you loved clouds, could even name ‘em. Hell, you were so obsessed with the weather you’d tell anyone who’d listen you wanted to be a weatherman. What the hell happened? You shoot more daggers through the windshield, eyeballing the formation as it gets lower, darker. I ask if you’re okay. Just assessing the threat level, you say. It’s starting to look pretty bad, actually, maybe we should turn back where it’s still clear.
16 November, 2021