After an autumn of flat seas, the storm arrives at night.
Rain stutters against the windows, billows in blowsy curtains
past the light at the dock. At first the wind sings, a long slow whistle from
afar; it fingers through the cracks in the sash and
moans at the door. A light wind. By midnight
it's roaring up like a train, slamming not again!
into the south wall. The house beams crack and
whinge; we put out towels to sop up the water streaming
in: oh please move the pears; it does them no good
to be so damp.
Who sleeps in the midst of so much noise, and yet we do,
waking to ceaseless seas big as houses, water
roiling and tossing, beaches cluttered with
spindrift and seaspray, the path puddled and filled
by twisted strands of seaweed and splintered
lobster traps. Scrappy ancient spruces crouch
close to the earth, turn
away from the water: stones
gather at their roots.
The cold hunkers in. We light the furnace;tomorrow there will be ice.