Ouspensky p 38 Tertium Organum
The sky divided.
There's a storm approaching, its been gathering since midday and now its crawling across my sky catching the last yellow of a sunset over the hinterland. The breeze is a little more restless than a few minutes ago. I can see it in the trees and now I can feel it on my skin still moist from a deep yoga class. The palms are beginning to bend and their fronds start to crackle as they wake. Its a good sign - more rain - this time an after dark storm - but perhaps over the sea.
The weather is difficult to predict here - the wind shifts quickly, visibly moving a cloud bank kilometres within minutes, interrupting the sky's plan plotted all day. Now there's a crystal clear blue sky to the north and the cloud bank is breaking up over my centre line of vision to the south.
A quiet suspense.
After 20 years here I still can't read the sky or the winds that change it, even the sea is a mystery. In my old home I knew, always, what to expect beyond the thinking about it. There was never any guesswork in reading the air and water around me. But here, there is none of that familiarity so I wait and see what unfolds before I feel it inside
... the clouds have moved further south and the anticipated drama subsides.
I turn inside, a poet and a story about singing bridges - The Batman ... and I remember standing in the wind listening to its songs.
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