A time of storms has murdered our  weather.  This sight of

scary clouds,   a heath behind  a  surfer  sea,   wetsuits  like

beetles  sunning  the   arctic   dusk.     It  makes    me   feel

transported to a broken and unreal time, night to the right,

dinky  sunset  to   the   left,   people   in   cars   all   around

wondering if it’s time  to  turn  on  the  lights.  This  night,

stacked in columns above our hill, is  hours later than the

sunset over water next to it, the silver light  exhausted  by

traveling through  mere  clouds.  The  world  was  born  in

gasses and liquids and rock that I reach by tin streets and

splayed foothills that I call home.