Knowing the weather confuses me on occasion.
What did the cavemen do
when they planned an excursion.
Cancel their trip and lose their grip?

Nah, they soldiered on through storms and wild conditions.
Did they wait out the winds and hunt for food later?
I think the weather app just might be a trap.
A source of information that feeds a large crater.

A hole to which we desire to fill
To satisfy our control for creating our thrills.
But what if, we surrendered to not knowing?
Would uncertainty start growing?

Probably, but we can change where we’re going.

What if we did not know nearly as much as we do.
About the bits and bobs, the Sally’s and the Sue’s.
What if we left it all behind, went about life a little bit blind.
And used the stars, the moon and the sun as our reliable kind.

When the tide rises and then goes;
When the grass dries and then grows;
When the ice melts and then flows;
When the leaves change and create that glow.

It’s how we can know the things that we really ought to know.
All the other stuff, just adding bulk to our sulk.
Weather will be what it will be.
I do not want to live according to thee.

Their black shine bites
my delicate gaze.
A purposeful emergence
the ravens talk of change.

White fluff floats in the sky.
The contrast affirms that
I am up
quite high.

Two ravens in sight
create a disturbance.
Loud and obnoxious,
obvious and suspecting.

Scattered flight, swooping with might
their appearance, with gusto.
“Listen, listen!” one of them says,
“We bring trust and good faith.”

The hot breeze picks up, stirs the trees.
When ravens approach, it’s best to
be still and at ease.
Receive the message like a new set of keys.

Scratching his curved beak against the rock where we sit
he looks up, his eyes an intentional stare,
opens his beak wide, pauses and says,
“Do not despair.”

Raven two silences
so raven one can be heard.
His timing is just right,
he brings so much light.

Yet the sky begins to smolder,
dark clouds circle
hanging over my shoulder.
The wind stills, black feathers move.

Inching closer the ravens
encircle my place.
Quieter now and with
a gentler pace.

“An uprising is coming, stay true
and welcome, be willing, be open”
raven one exclaims, his beak upon my arm,
he isn’t playing games.

Tap tap, tap tap.
His touch sends shivers
through my spine up
from my trunk straight into my mind.

A purple haze fills my head.
I am consumed by images of
the unseen, the divine;
to a different world I am led.

Tap tap, tap tap.
The raven blesses me once more.
I release and let go.
I trust this folklore.

Some days, lying on my bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling,
leaves an interesting impression and lasting feeling.

A rainy afternoon with pellets hitting the window,
the intoxicating smell, throws me into limbo.

It’s the quietest at night, if I lie here long enough,
the silence gets louder and louder, painting the walls in a huff.

The hazy glow from an outside street lamp,
leading the night walkers back to their camp.

I could listen to the rain all night long, I could count,
how often the wet pace changes, a reason to dismount.

When my feet are on the ground the rain sounds different.
Lying back down and hearing the drops, comparing this, is exhilarant.

Why would anyone choose to listen to the rain while standing?
The beautiful sound of weather, can be better heard within a certain landing.

Soft and horizontal waves over my stretched limbs,
I whisper to the rain, “come in, come in.”

Cover my body in your dewy moisture
Use the breeze to reach my skin, the rain replies, “we can’t avoid her.”

Slowly the silence breaks
revealing a deep drum beating along with the aches.

As the rain touches my forehead, slides down my cheek,
I stare at the ceiling for what feels like a week.

I am touched by your presence, you reached so far for me,
and I will hold my position, waiting, listening, until you set me free.