How the tall trees swayed in the middle of the night in that strange pale glow not from a moon but god knows what all of us awash with a storm spitting sideways as if we were all hanging onto the edge of some boat in the middle of a gray sick sea swaying to the sound of the spray the insides of a whale and no longer the will to even hold on.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: pacific northwest, poem, prose, William Pearse writer