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.