If you're in Savannah today, you know what I know.
It's oatmeal weather: dark as midnight, cold, and incessantly rainy.

Knuckles of the rain

on the roof,

chuckles into the drain-

pipe, spatters on

the leaves that litter

the grass. Melancholy

morning, the tide full

in the bay, an overflowing

bowl. At least, no wind,

no roughness in the sky,

its gray face bedraggled

by its tears.
May Swenson, October