Windstorm

It is always quite something to watch an jet fly above a windstorm. When you watch it lazily stream across the sky, you can all but forget the furious bending of the trees and  beating of the gusts. Maybe it is the same with feeling the rain pummel you in the midst of the thunderstorm, or watching the first snowfall of the season while out in ungodly chill.

Last night, I think I may have met one of my Spirits in my dreams... He was scruffy, blond-haired, with piercing blue eyes... another person, I'm assuming another spirits, called him Michael. Recently, I had come to the conclusion that my spirits were more than just totems, but guardian angels, as it were. This one was  meant for protection. He was Atticus, I had come to understand, but I also understood that he must have more than one name. I also glimpsed at the others too, but only Atticus, only Michael, sticks in my mind now.

Michael, the Archangel. Michael, the protector. Michael, the general. How odd to see him in the betwixt of consciousness and unconsciousness. I did not wake definitely: I slipped in and out as if on medication, but I remember his face, and another's voice.

If you stare at a jet above a windstorm, the windstorm stops being terrible.