I sit on the dock in the middle of a storm, and I wait for the whisper to reassure me. Winds howl–like wolves hungry for satisfaction–and the waves of the lake slap at the edges of the cold metal dock. The lake is surprisingly bright for this midnight disaster. I lay my body down, too tired from the weight I’ve carried all day, and I let the rain seep through the thin blanket around my shoulders. My eyes close, and it is to the sound of yielding metal that I fall asleep.
When I wake, I am on one of the lounge chairs of the deck, thirty feet further from where I last remember letting my eyes close. I watch the trees on both sides of me as they bend to the invisible strength of the wind. Helicopter seeds and leaves cascade downward in a never ending attack of nature’s wrath. There is no calm presence over the water. There is no great Spirit hovering over the deep. The storm rages, the trees bend, and I close my eyes and fall back to sleep.
a scribble of jo 