Winter storm in spring. Rain falling like sheets of plastic, like universes stacked on the sea of creation. Wolf howls of wind bend pine trees until they do a voodoo dance. How can such solid structures bow so low? The mountain side crumbles and slumps on the road. The creek swaggers toward the valley with cascades and teeth.
After such a dry winter, a February like a rose, there is a dark ocean in the air. Our house is a boat, and we will float in our bed as we are swept into sleep.