How to stop spinning in a fast world

the unruly rhythmic lurch of the hills hoist creaking under force of this wind sent straight from the Pilbara. Sent straight from the mouth of a cyclone that has thrown the clouds upside down and rain-beat birds into silence.

Here, the cat pushes for space on the banana lounge, raising greying eyebrows each time i nudge her with my foot.
It is the peace of a suburban Sunday; willy wagtails dance and scrape their feet along the garage roof.

The wing beats of an invisible crow. Dark shadow-flash above the patio. Sunday afternoon sounds.
And though time has melted into March we are still wringing summer from our skin.

these words are my postcard sized pocket of escape.
Under the long flat sky, pockmarked by plum coloured clouds. I imagine rain.
How it would fall on charcoal hills. And splash against embracing trees-
making spiderwebs heavy with crystals.