STORM!

the strangest thing, here in victoria, plane rattled out of the black sky to strike the family at the airport. i, zombie, go to bed with fine dog hair on my palms, hearing the plops of renegade raindrops against the window. the yellow house buffeted by the wind, mithering crows huddling under the eaves on a whistling phone wire. the gusts, not cold, but salt-wracked and with a resinous edge sharpening against the tousled pines and our belfry's cornices. get up to a thrown bucket of golden sunlight, and boot up for a walk, trees still ruffling. approach the beach, sepia flushed clouds obscuring the low-watt sun. a rainbow astride the city. the wind shorn thorn trees huddling the bluffs like cold-hassled pigeons. pockets full of fresh crushed rosemary, i lean over the cliff, into the wind, tears streaming, teeth dry from smiling. a daredevil wind-surfs over the laboradite waves -a plastic knife dorsal fin- tacks and follies over the lathering green ponies. william burroughs' rifles in my head, repeating: Who is the Greek youth smiling at? He is smiling at his own archaic smile. For this is the smile that happens when the smiler becomes the smile.