Rain lashing windowpanes, drumming on roofs.
A tap of the barometer, daily ritual.
A scouring, a howling, awakening.
A bare tree, wet black and bending.
The last leaves trembling. Small birds blown like scraps.
We march past puddles, the only pedestrians.
Glad to be out.
A great arc of seagulls, black against a torn sky.
Sheets of sleet.
Hard houses in rain-smudged rows.
The town illuminations, swaying in the storm.
Three o'clock and dark.
A bustle of scarves and coats in doorway.
Boiling kettle, steaming mugs.
May 1 on the Pacific Crest Trail, 35 Years Ago
6 hours ago