She spoke her story into the wind: I’m tired of waiting for something to happen, she said.
And then the hot breath of rumbling took her, atoms colliding, creating sparks where stillness had been.
The earthquake has arrived, she said.
And the questions burned insider her, tectonic plates shifting
With friction, and heat, and desire.
Something is going to happen, she said.
And then the wind took her story across the cracked open earth–the fault lining up to expose the underbelly of itself.
Something has happened, she said.
And then the story became the quaking, burning fissure that let in the light.
A Renaissance of Meaning 