WeatherChrome – Sky by Jon Van de Grift

Lurk

You came to my home. You assumed you were welcome. You built your homes, your schools, your churches, and I watched you forgetting about me. But this is my home, and sometimes my guests overstay their welcome. Sometimes the landlord needs to remind her tenants who is in charge. Run now, protect yourself as best you can, and remember.

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Layer

Great snowstorms begin with a few flakes. The first layer of snow on the landscape is often the most captivating for its elegance, contrast, and change. Through its veil, we can still see remnants of Autumn’s decay, leafless trees mingling in the now frigid atmosphere. Eventually, more than two feet of snow will bury this landscape, leaving Autumn as only a distant memory and visions of Spring too far to see. This land is cold, and will remain so.

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Veil

I hide what you have carelessly forgotten. You take it for granted, assuming it will be here, always. Now you are worried. Now you look for something to reassure. What was always known, always so easily found, is lost. If you’re not careful, you will be too.

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Rage

A minute ago, this was blue sky under a bright winter sun. What most people would call a nice day. Actually it still is, just not down here. Anything that dares to stand upright now, will quickly not. Even the earth itself finds no shelter. The Bora Wind has come to town. Hatches are one of her favorite foods, battened down or not.

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Freeze

Complexity dominates the city’s landscape. Ninety degrees is everywhere, muddled into the urban gray and constant motion. Only the cold can slow it down, make it breathe for a moment, and remind us that there is a greater home than the city. One of simplicity, one of control, one that requires some humility.

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Blow

Air feels light, most of the time. But when a storm tugs, gravity pulls, and a mountain range pushes, we are reminded of its true weight. Usually, we lean into it, or seek shelter behind something heavier than ourselves. This is not an option here. This is the sparse savanna where most creatures have learned to keep their heads low. But if you sneak a peak, the views are breathtaking. Literally.

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Ghosts

Each one falls innocently. Alone, it goes unnoticed. Its contribution feels meaningless anyway. Thousands more come, then millions. A population explosion buries the landscape. Even rabbits run and hide. Life quietly succumbs, ghosts in the great storm of this cold season.

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Under

Will we survive. The others below did not. Many thousands were lost. But we have been up here for decades. Heavy snow has come again and again, and we have shed it. High winds have come, and we stood our ground. Thunderstorms, drought, and many others have threatened, and we remained. But our defenses are thin against this inferno.

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Smash

A hundred miles in a single hour. Maybe more, who knows. Up here, there is no one to measure, no one to say for sure, and for good reason. It is cold, dry, relentless. Life is scarce. Summer will come and make it a little safer, but for now, stay away.

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Cover

I am not fog, or mist, or haze, or whatever else you might want to call me to make yourself feel better. I am smoke, and I am all that remains of your trees, your grasses, your wildlands. I am ruthless, I am deceptive, and I am hungry. But I am natural. I am essential. I am awe-inspiring. Stay out of my way, and I will rejuvenate your soil, clear away those that are unwanted, and paint your skies like no other.