I wax quixotically for giants.

I look down upon the clouds from on high, and wonder at how droplets have arranged themselves so much more resolutely than any social movement, any uprising, any construct of social elements seems ever to have. From here, I see into the eye of a massive storm, where white bleeds into a blue cavity, a colossal turbine.

I’ve seen, from atop a mountain, a storm pass slowly, deliberately over a valley below. I’ve seen storms dutifully cleanse a land scarred by industry. I’ve seen storms rip trees from the ground and casually discard them in the path of industry. I’ve seen storms compel the tide to crash ashore, pushing salty foam through 15 feet of porous rock, spouting from the top like from a craggy, volcanic whale.

Finally, I made the acquaintance of a storm, of its full breadth. I watched its miles-long sinew contract among a sunset’s lazy sky. The tiring sun cast light through a sheet of rain, a translucent glowing dressing screen for its modest disrobing.

I hadn’t seen a good storm in a long time. I imagine some mythic land where storms gather and rampage and mingle and merge, überstorms. These are our giants; I missed them, and I miss them again.

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