The damp rises from the river,
turns the air brackish,
seeps through clothing,
touches skin.
…
This is no place to be after dark.
…
Pleomele crouch on the raised bank,
whisper,
choke the orange sodium light,
under the bridge’s arc.
…
Fallen jacaranda perfume the humidity,
laced with rot.
A mournful keening rises,
low to the ground.
Amongst the ground cover
yucca squat, pierce the air.
…
As though an unattended door
has eased open,
let something through,
the wail rises,
wordless,
as the wind picks up
and the rain begins,
fat drops smack into earth
before multiplying
into a roaring deluge
curtaining off
the bridge, the light—
the wail, louder,
congeals into
a shadowed face,
contorted by the storm’s
violence.
…
Then, a calming,
a dark hush,
trees denuded,
still breathing,
just.
…
The engorged river takes
the leavings and in return offers
silence,
…
the water bleeds
into the bay
…
unheard
…
…
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