Sweeping the mud from the courtyard,
mopping the water that’s flooded the garage.
A mess, though it might have been far worse.
Upstate two million are without electricity
and suddenly the historical emptiness
of this place comes clear—turn off the juice,
unplug the A/C, and it would revert
in weeks to low-slung jungle. The jungle knows
its place because whatever grows tall
gets knocked down by the wind.
No palm trees here like the slender beanstalk
giants towering over Los Angeles.
Hurricanes teach you to keep your head low.
They teach humility.