“In the wind, the kiss of wisdom / in the mountain, silent touch”

There’s a storm moving in. Lightning bolts sparking against a backdrop of bruised clouds, afterthoughts of thunder rumbling, a light breeze carrying the scent of something cool and wet.

In the scene I’m writing, there’s also a storm moving in. Same type, almost same season.

If I time this right, I just might manage, for a few moments, to have internal and external worlds match.

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