Ivan Shishkin, “Road in rye”, 1866
High above
a rumble unveils
rolling
untethered in volume
sixty thousand tons of air,
the bellows, translucent,
swirling in pressure
and change.
Upwards velocity
terminal velocity
the exchange of momentum
the entropy of particles
in motion.
From nothing, structure,
From structure, power
a darkness of agitation
billowing,
thunderous, omnipotent,
the multitude of particles
dancing together.
The great hug of power,
the breath
sucked in and blown out
atomic, one by one then
big gulps and
entire fields, in volumes
the energy of a lifetime
expent on collective motion.
To be caught up
in such a feeling, magical
and dangerous.
To be swept away
head over heels
breath pulled straight
from the lungs,
the slippery slope
of power.
The wise know
to avoid such fate,
the dance being
too risky.
Yet the crescendo
captures all attention
the release of such a multitude
of particles,
sentient in volume,
the sovereignty of a nation
thrashing
discombobulated
by its own accord,
soon finds stillness
its energy wiped clean,
the slate available
for the next storm.