(Lake Tahoe, west shore)

On the second day at the lake
a storm warning and prophetic
graying skies, rimmed by a hint
of light over the mountains
to the east.

Sure enough, about mid-afternoon,
I walk to the same spot overlooking
the beach, where yesterday beamed
with unseasonable warmth
and happy lake-goers,

where today I watch a pewter sea
of clouds turn thick and muscular,
cumulonimbus body builders
obscuring the far shore,
and beneath them a vertical
a wall of white moving north.

I love listening to thunder
when it rumbles through this
great granite bowl like
the lowest note on the biggest
tympani, though not when it
turns ominous, slamming the sky
like a sharp whack on a bass drum.

Now the temperature drops as
the wind picks up, the pine boughs
above me starting to shimmy,
the lake matching the sky, no longer
the rich cobalt of yesterday.

But two mallards swim and float
near shore as I imagine they do
daily in their ongoing search
for sustenance, seemingly
unconcerned about weather.

Now comes the rain, gently
polka-dotting the surface
at first, drops bouncing as if
the rain gods have loosed
thousands of marbles along
with the rolling thunder
and lightning I cannot see.

I think of the boatful of family
and friends celebrating a birthday
on this lake two months ago
on the summer solstice, caught in
a wicked afternoon storm that
no one predicted, choppy ocean-
sized waves capsizing the boat,
drowning eight.

Today one small boat churns
steadily south, and I, the only one
watching from this rise above
the beach, raise the hood
of my jacket, whispering,
Peace, white light and safety,
my constant prayer these days,

hoping that this boatman soon
reaches safe harbor, gets securely
tucked in, as we all need to be
until this storm passes.