The Great Storm Passing Overhead or: Poor Robert Johnson

We met along a dusty country road
in the middle of the night.
Though it was warm
the wind howled over a land
that had no visible means
to prevent it.

To me
it sounded
like a chorus of old souls
loosed on the plains
once more able to flex their voices
for all to hear.

I could see him coming for miles.
(Which may come off as strange.)
Something about him
gave the night
a much brighter feeling.
The space he occupied
drew in darkness
gave shape to a void
that I could not ignore.

He wore glasses that let in only shade
and spoke in riddles.

We spent only moments talking
if that’s what you want to call it
The words that passed between us were
looks
sighs
the unavoidable acceptance
of one another’s company.

We agreed
it would be best if we
spoke infrequently of our encounter.
What little we knew of one another
would be tainted by assumption.

In return for those few shared moments
I would be forever changed.

In return for those few shared moments
he would know every detail of my life.

In most cases I would have avoided
this sort of confrontation.

I have been asked
(sparingly, it is true)
if I regret the decisions of that night
if I thought it may have turned me towards
some darker path.

I have to say no.
something about the wind
steered me forward.

The chorus of pent up old voices
stopped as he approached.
Becoming so quiet
I could hear the plants
in the fields around me
growing.

That moment was peaceful.
A great storm passing directly overhead.

Looking at the man
I could see the winds encircled him
and for whatever reason
I trusted him.

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