At sundown she stood on the bitter edge between might have been and yes of course. Yellows lifted up the spectrum into the violet buttermilk sky. Mammatus clouds, she whispered to herself, laughing at Hathor’s udder, pendulous over the fields of Kansas, where the farmers would doubtless throw up crosses to ward off Egypt’s slowly resurrecting deities. She offered a small prayer to Hathor. She had a battle to fight, and would take all the help she can get, cow goddess or not.
It wasn’t going to be easy, and of course, the hardest part would be deciding strategy. Full frontal assault was sometimes the correct path, but more often not. The subtler trails were harder to find, harder to follow. A misstep of a hair’s breadth at the beginning was an abyss miles wide at the end. Focus. Keep the goal in mind. There is a prize to be won.
It seemed the clouds were always reluctant to have the guest-colors leave their party and clung to them long past the time mistress sun had declared it was time to allow the stars to play. She closed her eyes as the sun dragged the last of its wondrous colors below the horizon. From her solar plexus, she drew in a breath, settling it deep.
At the end of the seventh breath, she was centered, focused. She knew what to do and how. Opening her eyes, she willed it to happen and the wind kissed her hair into billows. Leaves rose, along with other small objects, rising higher and higher, turning, spiraling up to fondle the mammatus clouds lowering above her. The sky’s response — a dark fierce erection of swirling winds — touched down nearby and she finished the incantation.
“I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!”
[image credit unknown – information sought]