The moment is a storm pregnant with rain. Heavy in sky, the pressure is on. Heavy on air, heavy on hair. The hairs of your neck are akin to an iron-filling-magnet-reaction.  The smell of ozone and of weight-barometric  allows for a heightened sense of you-can't-describe-what but you-know-exactly-what. Immediacy among ruins. The wind is a nice oil between the grass. Their sound rustles in lapping gusts against the hole of your ear. Ghosts of some lost physicality we flick away like ticks off a watchface. The sun provides a backdrop against this self-aware afternoon, as if I wasn't already reminded I was on a planet, I have to be reminded of the source of the gravity that makes this whole thing spin.
For the better.
There's more than this earth. I can't say that for the grass, though.