Like a stretch that opens the chest for a deeper breath, the Earth and sky opened. The sky was cathedralesque in proportion and haunted in color. Some mystic Michaelangelo had painted up there, tracing shapes and shadows for the crazed mind to interpret. Behind me, the sun breaks through to scatter golds in grays. Before me is a storm cloud, so opaque, so dark and thick that I feel there must be something hidden in there, something coiling and roiling in its gut, breathing smoke from flared nostrils and sparking light from its claws, or the impact of its hooves against the steely heavens. In fact, I can hear its growling or perhaps its hoofbeats. An alarm blares on my radio, but I turned it off, listening only to the storm. I can’t help but notice that all the other traffic moves in the opposite direction, so that I alone drive into the teeth of the storm for surely that’s a maw opening before me. I turn a corner, and the road is mine. I face the storm head on, borne on wings of water.