It rained for days.

I sat out on the wet porch;

Wet rattan, wet canvas, wet timber;

And watched the mist moving across the sound.

When you’d been gone four – five – days

I began to think the rain would never stop.

Food ran out. Fuel ran out. Spores settled in my lungs.

And you still weren’t back from the store.

I sat there, staring out over Lonely Sound,

Picking apart the rotting rattan.

Waiting, but not expecting.

Just me and the weather.