A battalion of clouds, they seemed to me. Starting out as a stripe in the sky, they gradually transform into a menacing dark shade. Floating above , with their blackness engulfing the sea straight from the horizon, they charge forward , and the curtain falls.
Like a see- through black lace dress , enticing sunrays in its pleats, the rain curtain is dragged along , scoring the sea- face with their heavy anchors; like a stubborn child dragged home from play , the clouds carry their rain children home.
I know it is coming. I can see it. Yet I sit here , waiting. The wait for something which is in your sight is restless yet exciting, because what you see keeps changing from one moment to the next, although the object itself has remained the same.
I see it first as an identifiable object. The horizon, the clouds on top, the canvas in between.
But as they slowly approach me, boundaries of my frame blur and the object melts into an experience. It cannot be dissected into components; something that comes whole and passes on as a whole. I have been sitting here for timeless moments, waiting for the taste of a rain drop.
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