An open field; home. Dark, squat, ominous stormclouds churn ten feet above the ground, gather air in folds. Atmosphere consumed and left vacuous; trees bend skyward and silently rend from the earth. Limbs dissolve into lifeless, swirling debris. Things that should not fly, do. Miles of the same. Silent chaos everywhere. Muted catastrophe. Some combination of tornado, fog and thunderhead; without lightning. The images _too_ sharp; altered; edited; planned; scripted; filmed. Wholly unnatural. Ever rolling. Ever consuming. Ever silent.
I observe; curious, confused, awestruck. They do not stop for me.
Have you ever heard God�s voice
like suddenly being able to percieve
the earth’s movement
because you sense a benchmark in the universe
someone ancient and young
neither male or female but loving
in a way that dwarfs even eros
Of a substance that makes earth-matter
seem more like vapor and emptiness and veil
that would dissipate
at one word from the Mouth.