Bluster

The wind isn't bluffing.

Gulls dart down

like folded arrows

to secret rock grips,

the buoys tip top

side to side in the whipped

wash slamming the harbor.

Over an inch an hour

for the best part of dark noon

drench, the bluster

might dent the drought

as it floods the valley bottom.

Reeling rivers poised for headlines

and photos of roof top boats.

The tent and tarp folks,

tucked tight in the gullies, got to climb

socially. A sheltered promise

of soup and a cot bring Bethlehem

to bear wet witness. The Child is borne,

by a Samaritan's smile,

in the storm.