Village Creek

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What is this?
Blue skies cover this brown corner building.
How many years have my tires curved around it?
I could never see within, but am certain it is a club
for elderly gentlemen and, on weekends, their brides.
The ladies step out to the curb in long simple gowns,
like pent-up butterflies looking for safe flight.
Behind, the creek runs madly out to sea,
the mountains emptying and readying for the
next dizzy rain storm.
Otherwise, it’s a quiet morning in this California village.
I am repairing a drain pipe in my house
and need a new fitting to make the old and new
join together.
I swing by the post office to drop off a letter
to my daughter in Hawaii.
I park for a moment near the bridge.
I can hear the swollen creek.
The village is rumbling.
The line at the hardware store will be short.
The next burst of rain is hours ahead.

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