Ben Soule
He has pitched himself stomach down on the lee slope of his roof with the wings folded under his arm. The wind drives the rain in glib warm gusts out of the south. He listens to the roar of it build. Forty, fifty, sixty knots. He can feel a curious pressure in his ears. He lifts his cheek just enough to see the toad lilies and the sprawling yellow corydalis—cluster after cluster of flowers in late-bloom torn from the stone house gardens. Spindly roots cartwheel through the air above his head, spitting dirt. The wind slices through his hair, and he hears the first plate of window glass give way.
The barometer is tucked into his breast pocket. In a slight lull of wind and rain, he grips a crease between the shingles and, with his free hand, reaches in and pulls it out. The red has sunk another .02 of an inch to 28.08. He checks his pocket watch. Still one half hour off high tide.
A full moon tide, he notes to himself. He resumes his watch as the ice cream concession from the Town Landing floats by.