Surf Poetry is just as bad

I can watch the weather here, the clouds build, they climb over the peaks, revealing the unseen shield over the rock; the wind moves the clouds, some fold over themselves and break apart, others have climbed fast enough to build into dark anvils; then the rain, some falling only part way then swept up again to make thinner clouds, then the rain that touches the ground, and you can see how heavy.

The climbing has changed.  It has become an access point to seeing.  Less of an objective, or a sport.  It is this doorway into a pace of time, or a way to feel space, or see thoughts.  Tactile.  Allows me to see the sky move, the sun , the plants, the animals, even the air I’ll breathe.  The lightning cuts through, the cars cut through, and open an elks back wide to show her strong organs; split unto the sight.

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