The Storm

A dull white sun sinks over the Mount Tam foothills, putting the storm to bed. Earlier I was looking out from my cottage in Point Richmond toward Belvedere at the oil tanker anchored at the Chevron Pier. It looked weirdly solid in the middle of a raging bay. The wind whipped the trees in my yard into a frenetic dance with the power lines. The power remained on but sirens blared in the distance. A heavy, iron-legged lawn table flipped over, the glass tabletop flattening the sodden grass. A garbage can inched its way down the street past the bay-facing houses where silvery spindrift flew up over their roofs. Some dedicated athlete calmly jogged by in full rain gear and orange dish gloves. Now, in the time it took to write this, the sky is lavender and blue above the soft humps of Belvedere, Tiberon, and Angel Island. The wind has been downgraded to a soft breeze and the winter air is warmer than the cold summer nights we’re so used to here. There goes my neighbor, dragging her garbage can back up the street. She sees me laughing, and laughs back. We exchange waves. Tomorrow we’ll pick up the roof shingles and straighten the bent hedges, but now . . . sunset.