by Steven Craig
There is a storm coming. Quickly, higher, the dark grey clouds command and own the horizon.
The wind begins to pick up and swirl the leaves, the dries grass, the lost flying insect and then the birds.
The Thunder suddenly booms as the driving rain blows in from the north, just an initial deluge but showing power. In its sights far belong was a car accelerating away from it.
She is fleeing in her car. Windows up and spray behind as she attempts that escape. The lightning follows so close behind, the thunder moves the earth and its voice shakes the car from the road.
The rain collects in the gullies and flows over the highway with such determination that it scours the gravel from the side. Lightning shows the white capes as that ocean rises in waves too steep to climb.
She looks from the side windows south where ribbons of sun still shine on the winter wheat, laying nearly flat as the wind arrives.
To the others there is only the total darkness of the storm. As the car hurtles though the storm, the trees, the grass, the sign posts flash by out of focus. The mile markers ticking down offer no relief.
The storm is gathering its assault and with its great flat bottom knifing though the sky, is prepared to flatten those that stand against it. The lightning not content to pass over the ground, lashes great bolts out the sides and the front of the towering great cloud, seeking to find and push on too quickly to deny it is deadly.
The wheels spin relentless though the rutted streams on the highway, more a speeding boat than a car.
Her hands tight on the wheel, the right leg powering the engine on to its theoretical limits.
There is a smile on her calm face. Her eyes glow with the rain squalls and flash in signal return to the lightning. It is her hour. Her day, her life. This is the energy she was born to live in. Nothing holds back that promise of power, of might, of unquestioned dominance of the world she graces.
The clouds built up and around her and upon her and unleash their torrents and portents cleaning the road ahead more like a massive sweep than any storm. She can feel the heat in her hands gripping the wheel, more than any match for the bolts from the grey heavens.
Now she hears the wind, its whistles, its screams, it attempts to shake her from the vehicle. Her foot in determination, outruns it all. The vapors behind her from the road tires form a long white cloud like a flowing and graceful cape latched to her shoulders.
The storm fears nothing. The storm is all powerful and never tires. The storm never relishes its hold on earth and sea and the lives there upon. Nothing defines its furry than its own success. There is nothing, nothing at all, but her and her determination and the blindness for anything else but what she came to this point for.
On a hillslope, on a curve, the storm and the woman fenced in equal determination to rule, to own, to find their destiny right here, right now, in this moment absent of grace and mercy.
The sky’s flash in their greatest horror. Her vehicle plows into it all like a ram not to be withstood. Thought the great gates of the storm past which it suffered no one to ever pass before.
The battle raise such a mist and whirl as to obscure the world for many miles about.
Something relentless has encountered the endless power, and in each other’s grip they swirl with the storms wind, its rain, its furious thunder, its nightmare of only a solitary victor.
Endless flashes, ceaseless thunder, blinding rain, all a cauldron to mix life and death in one ceaseless mist stirred by a single breath, inhaled by that breath and magnified a thousand times reshaped the turn of time.
And with sudden announcement the light of day, and even the darkness of night were taken off the slope. The beating and the sword and the shield were battered by the weight and the animal drive and the venture of near solid wind, now too confused to give name to whom it belonged.
And the cloud blew on its way, the rain ceasing, the lightning growing dim, the thunder surrendering to the distance. The cloud took possession of that highway and rolled away, discernibly weakened, no longer high in the sky, the great top anvil used too much too quickly and dissipated.
And there emerged then on that road a single car, headlights bright, windows open, long brave hair streaming out from time to time, speeding now towards night. The wheels dried the road of water into mist and a final salute of spray to the storm.
She was driving as hard as ever. Her hands red and bleeding here and there, gripped the wheel as her eyes focused on that clearing horizon that was ever her home unreached. The gear changed up and thus did the speed.
On that bruised face was a smile. A smile so strong, so determined, so unrelenting that it never faded in the gloom. She was living her life in tune with the engine that powered her on.
The question of it all was never in doubt.
Yet another miniature black cumulonimbus cloud was painted on her fenders along with all those previous.
Posted on 01/01/2020
Copyright © 2020 Steven Craig
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Glenn Currier on 01/04/20 at 07:44 PM|
"this moment absent of grace and mercy." Just one piece of a line that struck me. It would be a good line to begin a poem. Maybe I'll try it. Thanks for the journey through the storm, Steven.