Dry Season

I can see changes in the sky this day.
Clouds form strange lines that look like they are dancing sideways away, or towards something.
A silence crawls over me, like new skin forming.
Except this time it's covered in fur and scales. Readying itself for some kind of rage coming from the sky.

Despite the threat of this torrent, for some time now it's been dry all around and inside me, if I'm honest.
Perhaps it's better that the rain has been gone long enough for things to dry out, for smells to disperse,  for things not better contained to escape.
This way my back can dry out. The skin can heal and close.
With time to shore up loose ends, my bones can grow stronger, fusing themselves together in fortitude for the next storm.

I crawl out onto a warm rock and sprawl my body across it like a dying animal.  Basking in the frightening heat of a future summer storm yet to come, my sinew softens and I melt into stone.
The thought occurs that I could stay here forever, seduced by the heat of the earth, warmed by the fire in the sky, telling me I am whole again.

Until a reason grows otherwise, I will stay here as long as I need to dry out.

©2/2013DanyaMosgofian