Starting the Kiln

soft sliver thread vertical and descending by the window, mother spider sought the storm from a chipped white paint perch, black clouds and swirling purpling wind, a violent violet hush shut up the forest before the rest of the birds could zoom back to whatever hiding place they've been keeping for years, ground is grumbling, earth is shaking, the place is filled with an immense darkness, something serene in the vast hollow, almost like space in the way it is void of life, emptied the whole acre with an exhale from the ice tipped mountains and now the mohican death dance begins with lightning and crashes, kitchen plate shattering romances, everything gone in a whisper, gravelike in the winter. its not spring, don't believe what you heard. it never will be again.