That day in mid-September,
sea gulls whose squawks and scoldings
more often mix with surf and buoy bells
were heard keening
among pines and maples in hills above the river.

They knew.

Blue jays nesting near Freers Farm,
typically talkative,
were loquascious beyond reason
until grey, blackening clouds
brought evening to noon.

Jays quieted.

Unashamed,
gulls holed up,
Silent,
roosting in woods
like hens.
A great collective inhaling
as earth held her breath.

Mary,
the girl child,
paced
past her window,
past her window,
past,
staring north and east at the gathering storm.
Immense tidal clouds,
rumbling,
coming on…
Sticky air pasted damp skin to dress.
Tiny sweat beads tickled her back,
like gnats.
She rolled her auburn hair into a twisted braid,
holding it,
wiped with kerchief
the dripping from the skin.

Mary stared at her dolls,
sitting,
expecting,
on her bed,
thought to play with them,
pass the storm time,
touching them gently,
dressing,
caressing,
undressing,
whispering,
giggling gigantic secrets.

But such was not to be.
There were other,
needings,
calls to answer,
inside,
felt,
growing into her
as she watched with weird,
wonderous connection
the storms coming,
sensing its power,
as her own.
She pushed her face
against the window,
arms stretching wide,
breath fogging glass,
tears sliding from cheek to pane.
Panting,
Panting,
Panting
till,
with her gasp,
the storm came,
and the pain.

The wind, wild,
tore leaves from trees,
late Summer
wrenched into Autumn
by a Nature
unsettled.
Great torrents
fell,
the flow
drowning her world
while she
whimpered,
whimpered,
while storm
exploded,
exploded.

Mary,
startled from sleep,
surrounded by dolls tumbled
strewn with pillows,
quilts,
about the bed,
the floor.
Sunshine brightened her room,
cool breeze blew storm blown leaves,
piles by fence post,
barns corner.
Brisk Autumn followed hard by.

In the freshness of that morning,
Mary marched to market,
calm,
knowing,
causing restlessness
in others who had not been,
or had not notice
before.

(They would need passing seasons
before their agitations reasons
came clear.)

But the old one,
called Granny,
who rocked the world from her porch,
was known as the one
whose bones knew
whether winter would
lay hard or soft,
if the time to plant
the seed
was tomorrow or today

Saw,
with age blurred eyes,

Mary,

felt the lerch in
her long dried, empty womb,
rose,
creaking from her sudden cramped rocker,

to hail the coming
of the
woman.