The clouds roll in like Poseidon on his chariot of waves, across the expanse above. The voice of thunderclaps shatter the silence as what was dark becomes light as day for a brief moment. The moon washes out, or perhaps hides her face while none can see her, as lightning illumines the earth – well, at least the part I can see. No drops of water serve as messengers, no precursors given.
Then all torrents break loose.
Someone turned on the cosmic showerhead to drown and drench me. Why does it smell so fresh when I know it is bringing with each little drop the “impurities” of the air – smog, dust, pollen, and all of China’s pollution? But I don’t smell chow mein – not even as the drops get bigger. I smell freshness, and it is lovely.
Over my face and down my neck the streams descend – apparently gravity can even bully these storms around. Pulling, always pulling everything to that place called “ground”. Ground may not be the prettiest thing ever, dull, brown and rocky, but it has gravity on its side. Perhaps gravity knows something I don’t. I know that it keeps me here on the ground, and right now pulls all the elements down to it. I have become merely a bridge from sky to ground, with water walking (sometimes running) over me.
I seek power, not for myself, but in anything which man cannot contain. This rain has power, this gravity has power, this wind (oh, this wind!) has power – and NOTHING man can do could contain it or stop it, govern, harness, or rule it. So I love it. And so does my hair. It likes to break out of its bun and be free and wild, surrendered to the forces. Powerless, alone, free; if it stormed like this everyday I might just start a revolution. I don’t know against who or what, but I know gravity would be on my side.