Storms-A-Comin'

Accordion skies contort, invert, and weep young widows' insanity laughter. The muffled shrieks follow me as sudden pressure changes, send icy fingers through my open window. Some would call it a storm, but I take it for a gray harbinger of clockwork death driving mindless dust devils to engage fallen leaves and relapse victims, cutting out the dead wood, cleaning up the cities and poisoning the bay. The rain falls on Mt. Tamelpais, I can see it now, but not here yet. The rain calls me, texts me, clogs my inbox with invitations, knocks on windows at odd hours, asks if we would join the dogs of weather that rule the sky, text messages of the wild just a short vibration on my hip, again, again, persistent canine questioning. This storms-a-gonna wash me right down the stormdrain to the bay, and from there into the wide Pacific, just what Dr. Feelgreat ordered.