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.