Justin Skolnick lives and works in Portland.


Originally posted to justin.revision8.com on in Waverly, Iowa

Eleven morning. Even the new field lights of towering steel sway like trees. Clouds rough like stretched cotton, pulled to tension, curled in every direction — grey, blue fingers. Low lightning cracks, throws its voice to echo from a different direction, rolls and rattles. Rain increased, fell at 70°, now 80° diagonal.

I wonder at the look — if a storm’s rain fell at once, in a single blanket, like throwing water from a cup.