I am standing in the shade, at quite an altitude, and someone is whispering rants in my ear. Concerned, melancholic, distressful rants. I am offering an ear, and after some time I turn deaf. The sky is fair and readying for sunset: a little blue, still a little white, purple at the closest horizon. It is full of mighty black winged birds retracing their course in one single direction. They are returning home. But it’s much before their ebbing time today.
I can tell by the way they flap their wings and fly, that they are eagles. Mighty soarers, and high flying species. They are the crown-wearers of the sky, they practically reign its vast empire.
But they are retreating to their nest, sharp at six tonight. I fuse my eyebrows together, no longer concerned of what my companion is saying, concerned why. I map the sky, and it doesn’t take long for me to understand.
A huge black cloud is following their trails. Caressed and dominated by sparks of lightning on its ends. Followed by gorging thunder and colossal sounds.
The white and black clouds fuse together and stitch the little window through which I watch the mighty eagles fly back home. They do not chirp or make calls; they have absolutely no folklore for weathers like today. No warning, and red calls or music of danger, no fear of the storm. They retreat the same brave-heart, steel kings, they had gone.
The sky remains empty for a moment. Grey, and vacant yet anything but serene. And out of nowhere the eagles appear again, flying in random paths, crossing each other paths and refusing to collapse their journey for the day out of their fear of the upcoming storm, but their course has lowered. I can almost touch them. I just need to tip a little toe.
The thunder bites in. Followed by a bolt of light straight into the land. As I turn my gaze to the sky again, the eagles have vanished. They have surrendered to the urge of the storm to take over the sky. They have accepted the superiority and precedence of the rain above them. They wear the sky’s crown of steed, but the rain looms over the throne.
There is just one large black wing, making its way to shed, not flapping its way and cutting through the air current like eagles do, but flipping all the while like a mismanaged kite for the same cold wind that gushes between the skin of my bare legs, refutes it. The wind with the silence before the storm, the wind with the same ice it has had all month, brewing into its demonise powers.
The sky is clear once again, and the eagles have withdrawn course to let nature have its way. And after a long month of cold winds, and sheer wait, the rain has transpired unto my land. The soil soaks in the water, and the snow is mixing with its sisterly love. Water spurts by me. It patters like stones of iron clad on my face. And at last, after tarrying and tarrying and hoping to see the drought end, winter has come unto my land.
I stand still, the eagles are watching me feel delight in their rout.