The forecast
Hangs over our
Heads like an
Unmade decision.
Colored blobs
Of radar advance
And retreat at
Whim.
Two inches,
Six inches,
Ten to twelve.
As the creaking
Trees bend with
The bluster
Of wind,
We wait.
June 28, 2024
I mostly run on gravel roads, the kind that promise solitude and dust. My pace has slowed, as has most of life, become more of a quiet watching than a frenzied doing. I am less Read more…