It was a bellicose day. The air was curling like fists, punching the muscular sky – shredding it with its four-cornered ferocity. From the North, South, East and West the winds leapt like animals, rippling with strength and unbridled life.
Collapsed latitudes were tossed inside the atmospheric oceans, aimless harmonies lost and silent within the windy day. Their coordinates became as feeble as toys, broken numbers that punctuated the whirling spheres.
Irresponsible gusts of wind, shocking and reckless, traveled in pure, cold breaths. Breezes, like twisting fingers, tore apart and realigned the outraged day. The currents in the air climbed and roared, tossing the clouds like ships.
Stars, asleep behind the waiting twilight, spun throughout the writhing sky. Torn from their moorings, they rode the buffeting shoulders of the heavy gusts, the coiled breezes that galloped across the restless firmament. Their unhinged light fell to earth and was absorbed greedily: it bubbled just below the surface like a hidden, radiant lake.
That night would be an especially dark one. The moon – luminous and lonely – would be looking impatiently for her minions and wondering at the empty constellations that surrounded her.
Birds, resting in battalions, waited out the battle fought above them. Curved and soft against the rocks, they slept in stoic defeat. Occasionally another refugee would join them, to either be accepted, or scolded for its trouble.
Flying with panic and grace, they cupped their wings to embrace the agitated weather – holding it close to silence it, as a mother would hold her squalling child.