Red Hurts

The rain is over. A symphony of clouds plays out across the sky. Beginning in the morning, steam pipes of altocumulus duplicatus bluster the Berkeley hills, its hidden, yet far-reaching horizon echoing white plumes, slashing around me in pillowy sympathy. The sun lies through at sunset, and soon, dark fog rests socking in the hills, breathless. It's not over! I turn everything upside down, step across the soft, darkening blanket, pull the earth across me and sleep.

Trends and Everyday Events in

the Early Twenty-First Century


Richard Ames Hart

Thursday 13 February 2003