Rolling in.

Rolling in.

The storm pushes up the valley

Like a lump in the throat 

Like sellotape fire
Like sea chest cymbals 

Like dumping it’s burden
Like counting danger distance

Like spell cast petrichor 
Like skid-sod blitz. 

I love a good thunderstorm. From the humbling immensity to the fear ( you’re just a little scared too, right?) to the sweet smell and electric crispness in the air once it has past.

Hail on the other hand, I can totally live without.

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