Black clouds parked on green mountains.
I wonder about them all day.
Won’t a drop fall from the eerie sky?
I need to take a drive.
Yesterday, I hid too long indoors from the rain.
I am off to study the Monterey coast.
Baby god wits have been flying up and down Elkhorn Slough.
Farm workers have been picking artichokes on their knees.
They haul them out of the muddy soil in sacks tied on their backs.
They carry a truth most cannot taste.
The last storm left the beaches littered with logs and limbs,
clogging creeks and river mouths.
There will be beach fires in the summer.
I feel opened.
Thoughts zip in and out the way the god wits fly.
No one watches this practice but me.
I flush out what clings and blocks.
My new world moves slowly forward.
This journal lags behind.
The words used to come first.
I would set them in the place where they best fit.
Now words block the flow.
Another freeing rain may come.
What is left can be burned.

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