This first half of April, rain is the name of the game. And wind. Lots of wind. The wind arrives by the truckload, and misty forklifts unload it pallet by pallet in the street, where it escapes its fine-flimsy packaging and shreds whatever it finds immediately at hand. From there it flies up into the trees, the redwoods, the cedars, and firs, and sends the crows off at odd angles. Then it pauses briefly to catch its breath and to listen to the rain. An inch here, two inches there, cloudbursts and cloudships, bluebell-soaking frond-furling fernlips charged with sweet care.
And how was your stormy night? How is your calm? How is your truth and your meaning, when need there is none? How is your light? How is your dark? How is your new life, now that your old one has flown?