The Storm moves like breath over tall grass.
Not rage, but rhythm.
Her hair drifts around her in the hush before rain, a river of shadow and light, wrapping and unwrapping as she moves.
She carries the quiet of a world about to change, her steps a rhythm like dancing in a dream.
She has always been moving.
Even when still, the air waits for her.  
The Avalanche dreams in stone. Turmoil, vast, inevitable.
Beneath him, time changes its breath, and roots shift in their sleep.
He has always been waiting.
Even when he moves, the silence stays.  
She stirs the air with promise, a dance of petals and thunder.
He wakes mountains. And carries forests on his back.  
Where they pass, nothing stays the same.
They do not mean to change the world. But they do.  
She does not crash. She is the storm that gathers.
A wind that knows its own name.
She lifts the scent of earth, shakes loose the tired leaves, moves petals from their sleep.  
Her voice is the sky speaking in color.
Clouds bend around her. Birds hush when she passes.  
She wraps herself around the world, not to claim it, but to remind it she is alive.  
They love her because she belongs nowhere, and so she moves through everywhere, the air that slips between closed doors, the wind brushing every face, bringing a breath of cool relief to those who have forgotten how to breathe.

And when she leaves, the space she touched remembers it was open.
She has always been moving.   He is the weight behind stillness.
Not the fall, but the waiting. A hush so deep it hums. He listens to the cold and becomes it.  
They come to him for shelter, for the dark that holds no threat, for the sense of being buried and finally safe.   He does not chase.  He receives.
They press themselves into him until their outlines blur, until their names sound strange in their own mouths.  

Some grow there, taking root in the quiet.
Others fade, folded into the drift and forgotten.  
He does not mourn. He remembers everything. He feels them all.
And nothing. He has always been waiting.  
When she touched him, the snow did not fall, thunder did not crash.
The sky held its breath.  
Her wind met his silence and curled into it like smoke.
His weight welcomed her, not to contain, but to keep.  
They did not soften. They did not break. They circled, edged, collided, and from the clash came stillness.  
Around them, the world kept tearing.
But between them, green, bloom rising from stone, roots tangling out from ruins.
An oasis of peace, not empty, but full.  
She had always been moving.
He had always been waiting. Now they were both here.  
They were not gentler together. Nor weaker.
Only true.