The soul is ever shifting; like sun and moon, darkness and light, lived soul colors that reveal in battle of between; spirit flame that changes all caught in cast until battle is ended and spirit holds in arrival of day, or darkness’ fall.
Kiely sensed his changing, a silence different than before—inner thoughts, not contemplations—returned guard and shadow in eyes and a caution in words spoken and told free. An innocence and light were gone. They were not in his eyes and, near to him, she no longer felt them in her presence.
A peace was changed, an uneasiness, like animals before a storm; restless and shifting, bawling is the winds change and air cools sudden before wall of darkening sky.
Man becomes where he weights attentions of his soul, and the soul is ever shifting.
“You’re different,” Kiely told.
Andrew lifted his eyes, fallen downward to the field in which they stood. He made movement to speak, then countering, containing words he would not tell.
Sun set in the west. Crimson bled across lavender sky from wound of piercing light covering beneath bandage of encroaching front, dark line low in west.
“I am today,” Andrew told.
“Why?” Kiely asked.
He did not give an answer but changed attention of his thoughts. Winds in sky drew, fast cooling, into wound and darkness of west sky; drawn to the darkness and storm that it would bring.
He looked on her with different eyes, an intensity felt affecting instinct—knowing without knowing why. Birds scattered in the sky, departing from open air for hide and refuge in fence row bearing trees; singing last of their song—warning—before sheltering silent and still in brace for arrived tempest.
“Storm’s coming,” Andrew spoke, wind drawing dirt loosened from hardened crust into cyclone spout that rose skyward, forward leaning, toward changing of the west.
“Looks bad,” Kiely spoke.
“It’ll pass. Way it’s built up, it won’t hold long; need the rain too.”
“It makes me uneasy.”
Each felt storm telling through the sky.
“Energy will do that; not meant to stay static.”
“Looks bad.” Kiely spoke again.
“Maybe it will be…or maybe it’s just what it is.”
Kiely felt his stare, eyes’ tempered coolness telling, too, suppressed flame: shadow-wall before a storm.
Songs in sky fell silent—birds, cicadas, and crickets too—as stillness settled, unnerving, that heightened every sense. Sky was tension, air electric. Deep thunder pulsed from wall of darkness, rolling, resonant, and one with energy of sky.
Soul and skies are ever shifting; sun and moon, darkness and light, passion and pure skies: spirit-flames that change: thunder’s resonance to soul.
The soul is ever shifting; and passions are the storm.