Eventide had blushed listless. Its once slick pink lips chapped filmy white until faded darkness claimed the screen. Crouching shelf clouds growl. The distinction between cloud and breath is long lost.

Bedroom-jailed for pre-teen misdeeds, I break out to watch the sky. My slack-jawed shutter yawns wide enough for a grateful, lithe-graceful, exit. I land dully on dust-crusted, dinner roll earth, too dry to crunch. Each damp footfall collects another coating of soft, fine flour, congealing into ghostly pedicure foam. Outside is airless, closer than my detention. There is no freshing comfort here.

As the prescient cumulus towers, the earth and I expect. We are storm-primed, desperate for the great release. We sit torrent-wired, tongues out to taste the fat rain drops. Our tardy Robin Hood will come to steal the pressing moisture from the air and send it groundward. We are alert for his redistribution. His deeds will turn flour puffs to glueing paste, and free wheezing chests in sweet, wet, relief. Low thunder is our drumroll with intermittent cymbal crashes. We wait for the splashes in slick, fuggy, discomfort.

The earth is waiting to breathe, and so am I.

There's a sweet melody inside,
telling me to close my eyes and listen,
and my dreams have never been so dark -
you've been telling me to keep a distance.

There's a shadow where I walk,
moving close and telling me to listen,
but my mind is keeping me awake -
you've been telling me to keep a distance.

There's a new person in my life,
all the people tell me to forget you,
and I know I kept coming back,
but I think it's time to listen.

There's a sweet melody inside
and my love for you is growing weaker
and I know that I should listen -
you've been telling me to keep a distance.