~ or how a storm is like a writing impulse.
Sipping Vermouth rouge with a lemon twist, we see the thin curtains of rainfall at the coast. A few sprinkles pass over, and we keep talking until thunder and sideways lightning starts. Normal life goes on, but something imperative takes over. Surrender.
The blue gray clouds advance, real raindrops pitter on bushes, so we move the furniture inside. There is a mood not to be ignored, and I break my journal. The rain sweeps up and the coastal hills and rocks turn into slate silhouettes.
The pine branches that arc over the patio and the rock below brush the landscape Japanese. That is how prose poetry happens.