“I never thought the Blues would remain undefeated this late in the season.”
And for the poetically inclined, a short poem from two years ago, that this year would be better titled, April, California:
When it rains for days, the drenched world hums.
Black skies sweep eastward,
the song of monsoon
transformed to cold cloudbursts.
Back in Lucknow, clothing steams on the line.
Tin roofs sparkle. Here, what’s left
after it sweeps across the Pacific
startles the coastal hills to blossom,
whitens the Sierras, fills reservoirs.
We are tied in ways so intricate
no government can hope to manage it.
Wind, rain, the Arabian Sea,
magnolia, ski pole, infinity.