As I rise up out of sleep and as I fall back into it- this is when I write my best poetry. I make uncapped ballpoint pens my bedmates. They leave blots on the sheets as a testament to our relationship: indigo, midnight, vermillion stains. Occasionally emerald.

 

The Doppler radar scan of Hurricane Patricia looks just like one of these stains.

 

It’s Puerto Vallarta in T minus three days when Cedar texts and then calls me- a blur of numbers and obscure jargon follows. 200 MPH. Class 5. Central pressure. The superlatives grow every hour. Largest hurricane on record in modern Mexican history. North American. Western HEMISPHEREAN.

 

My days become a game of “Should I stay or should I go now?”

 

A year ago, I vowed to not get on another plane until I knew my feet could still reach the ground from 32,000 feet. Until I had added an olive tree with gnarled roots to the raven and planets soaring across my right bicep. I promised to pack up my passport and focus instead on developing an intimate relationship with my wild home.

 

Cabo? Cedar asks. No, I say. San Diego? No. We settle for a road trip, to the far off, as yet uncharted by me, state of Oregon.
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