There’s a menacing chill on the air this evening. “Had I the wherewithal I’d leave this place,” I think to myself as the first warning is issued by that unfriendly cloud hanging low and dark over the mountain. While once I thought that the rain would fall with purpose, I’ve come to understand that floodwater has no manifesto except to place the scumline as high as it can. We can stack these sandbags tall around our hearts without regard for what’s on either side of the dam. They’re only transient monuments to ineffectiveness anyway.
An assassin stands at the corner wondering if I’ll ever leave my house and its warmth. I have news for him, though… There’s nowhere to go, and the weatherman thinks we’ll have a storm.