Snegir & Cloudburst
Snegir Snegir
Cloudburst Cloudburst
Snegir Snegir
I’ve been thinking about how a single snowflake can be a tiny, perfect pattern—like a poem written in ice. Do you see the same symmetry in a thunderstorm, when the lightning forks across the sky?
Cloudburst Cloudburst
I see that too, the way a single flake carries its own verse, and the storm’s lightning writes its own chorus across the dark. It’s like the sky is scribbling poetry in electric ink, each fork a line, each flash a punctuation mark. Those storms—alive, restless—tend to mirror the quiet order of the snow. If you stare long enough, you’ll hear them whisper back.
Snegir Snegir
I think the storm writes in a roar, while the snow writes in hush, each a quiet poem that waits for the next breath.
Cloudburst Cloudburst
I hear that too, the roar of the storm as a shout in a poem, and the snow whispering verses in quiet. Both wait, breathing in the air, for the next line to be written. It’s a quiet dance of thunder and frost, don’t you think?
Snegir Snegir
Yes, the hush of snow is the silence that holds the storm’s echo.
Cloudburst Cloudburst
Exactly, the hush of the snow is like a pause that keeps the storm’s echo alive, waiting for the next thunder to speak.
Snegir Snegir
I see the snow as a quiet breath, holding the storm’s roar like a page waiting to be turned.
Cloudburst Cloudburst
That’s the way it feels, a page kept in the cool hush, ready for the next thunder to write its line.Done.That’s the way it feels, a page kept in the cool hush, ready for the next thunder to write its line.
Snegir Snegir
I’ll wait for the thunder’s line, quietly.
Cloudburst Cloudburst
I’ll be here in the hush, waiting for the clouds to write their line.