I heard thunder again. He’s a happy one, chuckling off in the night, merry in his infidelity to lightning. She is too harsh and angular, too high-pitched and hysterical. He far prefers the velvet of the dark night. Now that’s a sensual woman! But he will be quite bereft come morning, sharp and tangy on the mountains. Lightning may just make off with morning. They work well together after all. Morning’s crisp energy rounds off her sharp edges. Yes, lightning will lie with morning. Two women? Well yes, I think so. Won’t thunder be jealous? And lightning will calm her aphonic screeching. She will find her voice in the crisp morning air, the raucous clanking turned to a light metallic, harmonized through the morning sky.
Slovenia. Out the window. Sheets of rain entangling lightning in morning’s caress. Thunder, having wadered off with the night, grumbles his discontent from afar, as the massive mountains smile down at the familiar scene. The jaded lovers’ frantic infidelities – a vain attempt, a desperate grasping at the immortality of the jagged skyline.