STORM DREAMS

The chill of late October gives way to the relative warmth of early November. The storms are coming.

The soil, once parched by summer sun, is now saturated with the autumnal rains of the Pacific Northwest. The ground cannot slake its thirst and continues to drink. It cannot contain the object of its appetite.

The Puyallup River, only a few hundred feet away, laps at its banks, as well as at the edge of my dreams. The Puyallup River, once bound, is now a nightmare in the making. The cold, murky, muddy water, filled with debris—twigs, branches, stumps, whole trees—eases into liminal zones it rarely visits. The water weaves between brambles and blackberry bushes. It crawls over the grass, ever closer to the purported safety of my home.

Security is a falsehood. I tremble in my sleep, which is light and fitful. I listen for the patter of the rain. I listen for its intensity. It increases. It decreases. Crescendo. Decrescendo.

Work is no relief. You would think I could go there to escape the damp and cold. But inside it is damp and cold. A broken furnace, leaking carbon monoxide, is shut off until repairs can take place—"Next week," the promise last week, and now, this week, a delay in parts. Next week becomes next week becomes next week. Water drips, and, later, streams, from a leaky roof through light fixtures and heating ducts. The drip of water plays a rhythm in small plastic bins that are scattered about the floor to catch the intruder. Tip tip tap. Tip tip tap.

A noise that becomes difficult to shake, whether asleep or awake. Tip tip tap. And, ever still, the river creeps closer...