It's Too Late for this Sort of Thing

Thunderstorm

A quick snap. Quick release. I’m running, jumping, climbing, flying away from where I stand. I am the whistle of the wind. The air between my sneakers and the cold ground. The pebbles and rocks I push away with my movement produce taps that turn into resounding thuds and bangs inside my head. Their rhythm quickens with every step. mirroring the beating of my heart. Branches thwart my efforts to blaze this wild pathway I’ve chosen, leaving slashes and scratches that can only time can heal. I press on. Running from the noise inside my head. The trees that surround me. The light piercing the sky. And though I have no words, I scream in hopes that my voice will be heard. That I won’t blend into the summer symphony of wind and rain. That my voice, my scars, my determination, my heart will be noticed. And that it will all be enough.