The coming storm

News of violent relief from the current drought is here by way of a dark and ominous swirl of clouds far off on the horizon. The wind is kicking up in sporadic gusts; they blow the smell of the lantana plants through my office windows... Such blissful warning for the impending storm; the sharp and bitter pain before the beautiful release.

I watch the butterflies dance and frolic against the gusts, landing on the lantana and then circling, over and over, either in anticipation or in spite of what's on its way, and all the while, one thought keeps circling in my mind as I experience this:

"How fucking gay am I for thinking this shit?"