The season has been thick gray glass.
It makes me think there is a rumble on the horizon.
Thud-thudding, tight-skinned war drum.
We are restless.
You thrash about quietly, I thrash about loudly,
but it is the same roiling unknown.
The sky has been an ooze of oil.
The ground a mire of boredom.
The wind that whips through kisses us, though.
It holds a whisper and scent of something different.