A piece of reclaimed swamp that might return to swamp as soon as the rains set in. Something to look forward to. Or something not to look forward to. Or something to look forward to in not looking forward to something.
Who can stop the rains from coming? Clouds forecast to only glide through the blue sky, will linger on threateningly for days. Clouds that linger on threateningly will, contrary to prediction, dissolve gliding through in innocent puffs.
The ocean over there makes fun of us living on this side of the bay, the way it starts out calm and quiet on the other coast and then picks up speed and anger, so that by the time it gets here it likes to play with our lives. The sky does that, too.
Once, I hear, there were gods to please to make it stop. Now science is at a standstill and our desolate houses might be washed away.