Roger Jones The 2River View, 6.2 (Winter 2002)

In Hurricane Country

Sheets of hurricane rain
tangle in the air, howled against
the unboarded plate glass of our
sliding back doors. Palms bend
and blow, barometers bottom out.
Now comes the hour of tree-crack,
whoosh of shingles, bits
of the city mingling in the air.

How odd it is, a day later, the sky
cloudless, a grave stasis settled
on all, the clean-up underway:
chainsaws razzing, broken limbs
stacked at roadside, a local
grocer giving away half-melted
gallons of ice cream. At night,
both moon and power out,

we’re home in dark too humid
for sleep. By the transistor radio,
we hear how the storm, still hungry,
slams like a drunk eastward,
up the coast. Here, in calm,
stifling dark, we lie flat on the floor
near the opened window,
gasp for breath like beached fish.

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2River All is well.