Last Night
The hands hug themselves around the 1 on the clock. Barefoot, I step out onto the damp wooden boards of our balcony, into the night, into the thunderstorm. Wrapped in a knitted chocolate blanket I fold myself between the rough brick wall and the smooth chillness of the sliding glass door.
I love our third floor balcony because it’s hidden in the fullness of a huge tree, tall and stately, rooted below. The branches that stretch out like fingers, unashamedly naked and crocked in the winter holding palm-fuls of snow just out of our reach, now snake through a thick fuzz of greenery. As those glossy black branches sway in the steady puffs of the storm, the thick, shell-shaped leaves move like wool sweaters strung on a clothes line, slow and deep.
Below, the orangey-yellow hue of a street lamp, reminiscent of the sickly glow of gymnasium lighting, fans out onto the pavement of Gregory Street. Even though my eyelids dance like marionettes puppeted by sleepiness, I'm determined to watch where raindrops smack the flooded street below like a stadium of flashing cameras; the sturdy slap-slaps of the pregnant drops make me think that they would feel like a thousand little needle pricks against my skin.
I let the blanket tumble off my shoulder, feeling the crispness of the brooding air, commanding the tiny hairs on my arm to stand at attention. I don't make the effort to cover it back up.
The sky cracks and booms, shaking the knotted wood underneath me. For a quick second I am rocked by the vibrations of the thunder before it rumbles off in the distance, chasing itself on the wind.
The lightening. It's as if some of the raindrops plummet so hard and fast that they bounce off the ground and leap with even greater intensity back into the sky to explode like fireworks – illuminating the entirety of the sky, only to be just as quickly blown out. It reminds me of when I go to flick on a light but don't hit the switch hard enough and it falls back down. A brief connection, a spark of light, and then the connection is broken again.
The rain slows to a patter.
SmacksmackTink. SmacksmackTink.
Water is always moving – dropping, gliding, evaporating. I'm inspired by water because it seems to understand change; accepts continually starting over. It knows that it has a bigger purpose, that it’s part of a bigger purpose, than who it is in that moment.
A raindrop hits my foot.
I decide to go inside so the fading storm’s rhythm still has time to lull me to sleep.
I love our third floor balcony because it’s hidden in the fullness of a huge tree, tall and stately, rooted below. The branches that stretch out like fingers, unashamedly naked and crocked in the winter holding palm-fuls of snow just out of our reach, now snake through a thick fuzz of greenery. As those glossy black branches sway in the steady puffs of the storm, the thick, shell-shaped leaves move like wool sweaters strung on a clothes line, slow and deep.
Below, the orangey-yellow hue of a street lamp, reminiscent of the sickly glow of gymnasium lighting, fans out onto the pavement of Gregory Street. Even though my eyelids dance like marionettes puppeted by sleepiness, I'm determined to watch where raindrops smack the flooded street below like a stadium of flashing cameras; the sturdy slap-slaps of the pregnant drops make me think that they would feel like a thousand little needle pricks against my skin.
I let the blanket tumble off my shoulder, feeling the crispness of the brooding air, commanding the tiny hairs on my arm to stand at attention. I don't make the effort to cover it back up.
The sky cracks and booms, shaking the knotted wood underneath me. For a quick second I am rocked by the vibrations of the thunder before it rumbles off in the distance, chasing itself on the wind.
The lightening. It's as if some of the raindrops plummet so hard and fast that they bounce off the ground and leap with even greater intensity back into the sky to explode like fireworks – illuminating the entirety of the sky, only to be just as quickly blown out. It reminds me of when I go to flick on a light but don't hit the switch hard enough and it falls back down. A brief connection, a spark of light, and then the connection is broken again.
The rain slows to a patter.
SmacksmackTink. SmacksmackTink.
Water is always moving – dropping, gliding, evaporating. I'm inspired by water because it seems to understand change; accepts continually starting over. It knows that it has a bigger purpose, that it’s part of a bigger purpose, than who it is in that moment.
A raindrop hits my foot.
I decide to go inside so the fading storm’s rhythm still has time to lull me to sleep.
posted by Ash at 5:44 PM
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