“park into the storm” I’m told.
“wait it out” they say.
and I know that’s what i should do,
but as i sit,
palms sweaty on the steering wheel,
my sense is no longer so common.
the urge so strong to shove my foot,
fully down on the throttle,
and shoot myself full speed
into the storm,
how l long to feel the energy
of the dark clouds billowing all around me,
eyes wide in excitement,
or maybe terror,
or maybe they’re one and the same,
as the violent torrent expands,
swallowing me whole
fast and dull in my ears,
replaced by low, deafening thunder.
the ends of my long hair,
flying in the wind
indistinguishable from the
thin, sprawling etches of light
shooting across the sky,
and i’m sent spiraling sideways
through the desert squall
until I deliciously dissolve
into cool drops of spring rain,
teeth, skin and bones
into the storm
or perhaps even
the wild, unpredictable essence
of adventure itself.