It is a furiously humbling experience
to be helpless before the gale
and exposed without cover,
knowing that cotton takes roughly a millennia to fully dry.
Even though I know that skin is waterproof,
in the moment it is hard to envision a future
where water is not dripping salt and sweat
into my mouth,
even if I know that just such a future
lies just minutes over the horizon
beyond the rain haze that blurs the twinkling city lights.
My shirt clings to me ever tighter as the storm waxes wroth;
the heavy fibers seem to cower from the far-off flashes of lightning,
the thunder to which we never hear.
Freshwater tears course unbidden down my face
in forks and rivulets, washing away the sand and grit and anger
as I trudge through the blowing sheets of broken glass.
And then, the inconceivable future dawns,
and as quickly as it had spawned,
the downpour abates,
leaving behind a sodden figure plodding slowly
through the newly-dappled sand.