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Ron
Rain Cracks in the gray patina glow and then are gone The boom is the splitting of the clouds not the air. I turn the sky around in my hand like a mottled globe But... More »
Ron
I guess it's what I would call stirred weather. It's not a place with a particular locus. She brings it. There's never a formal invitation, an itinerary. So it's wherever I happen to be when... More »
Ron
Metta's poem has got me thinking about weather. Many moons ago I watched the weather for military aircraft in Germany. Ramstein Air Base was primarily a tactical fighter plane base during the cold war. Now... More »
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