The Storm’s Edge

I am the lightning.

My hands are shaking. I am charged, filled to the brim, and all you can do is stare at my neon-inked fingertips as they flicker across the smoky gauze.

My fingernails are like glass, but I am all a-tremble, waiting, unwilling to turn away from my wild work, because I know what I will glimpse: a soft sky, waiting patiently.

It will break me. A thousand images flash, reflected in my winking fingernails from the days when I was no more than a meteorological blip.

Leave me alone. Let me work my busy, weaving hands. This storm will never pass, so long as I can stop it.

I will terrify your dog. I will riot in the dreams of your children. Consider this my greeting at the storm’s edge.