She walks down the old dirt road
bare feet creating no dust.
White skinned trees hold high their garlands of gold
dancing in the wind which whips dark hair across pink cheeks.
Her eyes search the sky of pale blues
worn through with twisting white mists.
A rumble, more felt than heard
accompanies the shifting pressure.
Wind cradles the aroma of ice,
damp earth, and rejoicing trees.
She enters a meadow carpeted
in twisting stalks topped with pregnant seeds.
Arms outspread, they brush her palms
stinging her wrists.
Centered in the glade of dancing gold
she stands witness to the coming of the storm.
Grey wings spread over blue
trees throw gold in celebration.
Then white is back, no longer in the form of misty clouds
now condensed in branches of the dancing trees.
Shivers run down her spine, like a drop of icy rain.
A call cuts through the air, a flash of weightless ebony catching her eye.
A raven circles, wingtips splayed as a hand in greeting.
She basks in the hum of life.
Then comes the rain.
A single drop touches her hand, then her face.
She tips back her head, eyes open wide, enveloped in the storm.
Deafening thunder shakes loose her laughter.
Swirling clouds like water under an oar.
Lightning releases its modesty and dances, unabashed.
It looks like branches, or veins.
The energy in her chest is intoxicating.
Her cheeks are aching under the weight of her joy.
Cool sweet rain lands on her lips, in her mouth.
There she stays, moved by the wind like the trees.
Rain turns to hail.
The feeling of being pelted by stone—
still, she stays.
Soon the clouds retain their cargo
the sky regains its colour and the wind disperses
There she stands
feet and legs caked with mud, drenched to the bone.
With golden leaves caught in her hair
she feels clean
About the Author
Eden Nightingale is a Kootenay local currently taking Creative writing through Selkirk. She is passionate about art and can usually be found spending time with her rescue dove while writing or painting.