rhythmic sweeping of the grass, the night on my face, and the distant rumble of the storm. In that half-dream, my striding feet, resting on the night's breath, left the grass. I watched as she wove together all my knowings and doings on the loom of distant earth--as if the night wished to tell me that in my wanderings, I had not marred her course; I cannot make her less or more.
But with a clap, I woke to the night in its blackness and at the edge of a storm. The before distant loci of light tailed absently by low rumblings had heightened, as if at once, into a blinding, deafening flood of light and crash. The lightening lit the earth and sky, and I saw the coming rain. The night's breath drove it against me.
I read all five Night posts. Very good. Very descriptive.
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