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Things are different before a storm. The light goes faintly green and all of a sudden the frames of your doors of perception are slanted enough to make everything changed. You look through this watery light at the faces of people you knew and they seem both clearer and more indistinct. What you knew is brought into question and what you did not know is become obvious. The buildings are different, too. One garden gate bangs restlessly, no longer content to be a welcoming entrance. It wants to seek the world itself, not merely receive those who have seen places it cannot go. My curls have changed as well, becoming both more tender and more fierce. It is the rain in the air that softens them, bends them gently to the hand that strokes, but it is the wind, the textured wind, that lifts them from limp compliance into a substantial living independence.

There is no one to share this with. In telling it cannot be conveyed, it is for me and me alone. When the sun in all its straightforwardness shines tomorrow I will once more be blue skied blue eyed, and yet these slanted layers of subtlety will remain tucked in some corner of my mind to bloom out again, richer than before, in the next graygreen storm light. I will remember how it was true.