i stand alone in the middle of a wheat field bathed in the ochre light of an autumn Sun. the Wind whips the ripened wheat stalks to a frenetic dance and carries the last strains of live’s lighting crashes in its wake.
but regrets cannot overtake me here. i am in my own world, where the low-lying Clouds slowly hide the face of apollo and rumble their ominous warnings of an impending tempest and the Earth undulates and groans in her birthing throes.
the Wind shrieks louder, and the wheat bow down, asking for mercy, asking to be spared. the Wind shows no compassion today and breaks scores of stalks as it flies through field. gold grains run after Zephyr.
i stand as the storm breaks, drenching my skin in translucent rivulets that slide down to Earth and slake her thirst.
lightning dances before me, scorching the wheat and raising up the sweet smell of burning. clean, clear, cleansing.
the Earth heaves once more and opens a fissure between my feet. the abyss is home beckoning.
i dive in.