Anthropomorphic Atmospheres

Trees that shed branches like dogs shed hair; they drop leaves as if suffering from green dandruff. Rivers that wash the rocks beneath them as if that was the singular role of rivers, except those same rivers slice through once-solid earth like a hot knife through butter. It’s the damn storms, you know, the storms that conspire with their natural brethren to clutter hillsides and valleys with reminders that Mother Nature has more power than humankind will ever muster.

There’s a carnival atmosphere about storms. Screaming winds sounding like insane calliopes playing against a sizzling background of crackling lightning and driving rain. It’s a thunderous calamity of noise and lightning, the original strobe light. I have visions of Mother Nature, caught up in a psychotic rage, racing through a midway, screeching in hysteria as she swings heavy chains over her head, lopping cabins off of Ferris wheels and overturning bumper cars. What psychotropic drug must she self-administer to sedate that anger? Whatever it is, she pretends nothing happened; she suggests, through her demeanor, that she has always been bathed in sunlight and blue skies.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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