|Lichens grow on the porch chair|
|Fog obscures the islands|
It speaks of rain Ramey says (meaning the radio, the sky or
the loons). I heard them yelping yesterday in the other bay, I'd thought
they were coyotes. Floods in Texas but here a soft shower, which is more like
a mist (a marine layer they call it in San Diego, as if
fog were a stranger to them).
Not like here, where it's intimate and
cellular, a semi permanent inhabitant of the pores. Throb
of the lobster boats coming in to dock, gulls
screeling behind them, all of them invisible, almost
imaginary. Soft hiss and thump as
their wakes come ashore. Somewhere (not here)
the sun is high and hot and annoying
as a June bug.
|Reflection in rain|