I can feel the heat lightning, impatient, knocking against the walls of the clouds. Is it time yet. Night is thick and so my sleep is thick and some primal thing in me is stirring and speaking to the storm, relaying a message in a language I've forgotten how to speak. I would answer but their communion is too strong.
So my voice crawls back down and coils itself at the bottom of my throat. My tongue can only trace against my teeth, back and forth, pacing in the waiting room, feeling the sharpness of my incisors, the right cut harder than the left.
There is rumble but there is no rain.
Photo via Christine Mandich.