Disjunctive Polarity
We’ve had about twenty storms this season, and they’ve all been different. Today, I’m staring out a window as grey clouds pass by at an unnatural speed. Gusts of wind blow limbs and leaves sideways, and wind chimes ring an alarm, a constant roar and rush like a head full of thoughts. Trees yaw and bend but hold fast. Our local ravens fly into the breeze, dive, and chase with what looks like pure joy. And another is making a chattering sound like a heavy rattle, a distinctive sign of spring.
This storm, as most have been, is coming from the south and bringing warm, damp air, a tropical feeling we don’t often get here on the central coast. There’s something about the ocean during a storm that pulls on me like a magnet. Dark clouds and a choppy surface give it a deep-grey moody feel, cold and voracious, and magnificent in its display. Yesterday, a clear sky with a wind-rippled surface seemed to reflect a fathomless-blue feeling in the ocean, mysterious and enigmatic. Now the rain is falling again. There’s something gratifying about the wildness of these storms, the wailing, ripping, and shaking, like an eternal thirst finally being quenched.
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