Gray on Gold, by Quinn Dombrowski The sky is swollen and bruised, pregnant with expectation. The wind kicks wistfully against the ground with the reluctance of a sullen child consigned to his chores. Storms are the unification of grand and unreadable heavens and simple modest changes on the mundane earth. A single crack of thunder is a twig cracking underfoot. The first uncertain drops of rain test the ground, an animal gingerly exploring the quiet forest floor. I am humbled and deified, astride the coming tempest as lordly observer and pitiful subject. The promise gives birth, and the clouds sing themselves empty. I don’t go inside.