Sierra Nevada, November: An Appropriate Weather

Twice, perhaps, I have awakened surprised by snow in the wide field. November: bare oak branches like cast iron. A long breath drawn down a blue canyon in my lungs. A superb stillness, plenty of room.

My mind sits in a corner of such weather. It sees a few men in brown clothes cleaning an auditorium. They slam metal folding-chairs back into two-dimensional space. That sound echoes like gunshots across the bare field between November and March.

Someone incinerates a newspaper containing today’s weather forecast. My eyes follow cinders and smoke into a pale sky, into a dream of weather in which a storm descends to devour my mind’s desires in a whirlwind, delivering them as dark rainspots on a dry valley.