Before me the hillside, a mess of different greens and the straight edges of orange roofs, stands out in relief against the paper-flat sky, which is darkly washed-out. Its stillness is deceptive. I know that behind that thin unmoving screen a storm hides, waiting. But for what? The very edges of the leaves on the trees quiver, ever so slightly.
When the storm comes, it brings the sky down with it.
During the rain, standing close by, under shelter, listening to the sound of water crash through the trees, smacking the mud that shoulders the downpour in pools between ridges, I find myself wondering: were we meant to be here? It might be that we are an obstacle – to be overcome or ignored – standing in the way of the ecosystem doing its thing. As if we were an unhappy accident – a bastard species created because someone, somewhere, messed up.
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