Orleon

Master Weaver of the N'tar

Slow Morning

On my third cup of tea, the morning moving rather slow, endless in its expanse before twelve. Something is coming overhead, over this rusted tin roof, a storm, darkening the will and mesmerizing the movement of things. And there it is, the blackened cast iron rain that darkens all things and slams against the pavement for hours at a time, blue promptly following with a clear vengeful heat that fills the lungs like a vacuum. Simmering heat from the street-skillet. Look up, look up and do not see relief until September. But in these hours an iron pot smolders with oil and a thousand past meals, past lives in the soul of my kitchen. And the wave engulfs me up here. Oh the thrill of pounding rain, the plants are satiated and the will is pushed to nothing, saying briskly, "can't do that its raining". Alas it feels as if it has been raining for 2 months.