And when she comes to claim this land, she comes relentless. You will hear her before you see her. In whispers first but then like grounded thunder. This land’s muted cloak will fall charred from the black morning sky. She will swallow up the sun. She will come from the north and the south trapping you on that collapsing passage. That pass between two worlds where you chose to make your home. Where you thought you were safe. And when she comes there will be no escape. She will surround you. Choke you. Black and red and orange. She will melt down the steel signs you gave that land that speak names she does not recognise. She has her own names for this place, her own language, her own breath. And when she comes she will make you forget all that you thought was important until you can see only that which is, see only a stone’s throw in front of you, only tomorrow. She will make you understand your smallness, your powerlessness, the futile in the fight. And when she comes you cannot put her out. Cannot pay no heed to her. Cannot turn no other cheek. She will burn until she is done. She will rage until she is done. All you can do is wait and watch in horror as she takes all that you made and makes it nothing. Takes your very oxygen. Takes this land and you together and reveals your bare beginnings. Exposes your perturbations. She will lay bare your edges and your hollows, your plummets and your heaps, your loves and your hates, your own scorch and rage. Incinerate your muted tones. Paint you red and black and orange. A solitary screech.
Then grounded thunder roars.