Roiling in the eye

  The sky is overcast, the air moistly heavy with rain that is beginning to fall. All around me the nesting birds call for their mates to flutter home, as a large military aircraft that I can not identify rumbles over head, and on its tail thunder comes rolling in.
  Like a wave crashing to shore, gentle salty breezes wash over me, raising goose flesh on my arms. Another plane soars above us, somewhere above the clouds, again trailed by rolling, crashing waves of thunder, as another late spring storm makes its way up the coast.
  The air around me is peaceful, and yet somehow charged, it is the calm before the storm. Now the sky behind me darkens to a green, surrounded by dusky gray, like being in the eye of an ostrich feather. Thunder crashes again, rumbling and rolling, like the roiling surf. The storm brewing is not unlike that which is in my own mind. The fury which is encapsulated in the eye of memory.
  Local wildlife feels it too, so I sit and gawk as they scurry about, seeking shelter from the storm. As I too, seek refuge, and begin internalizing, the eye of the storm, and its beauteous calm will soon be upon me.