September 24, 1999

In the calm before the storm,
I drive to work in wonder at the sky,
Pale blue�cthe yellow sun winks at me knowingly.
I will take today off, he says.
I drive toward the storm:
Black clouds roll over the peaceful mountain
and the little town with rice fields.
My tires crunch the gray gravel of the parking lot
I hear rushing water in the tiny canal
and the tired ka-chunk of the rain grate under the wheels.
Soon I am greeted by a fellow teacher.
A cheerful ohayo gozaimasu!
Hurricane-typhoon-hurricane-typhoon�cI am learning that the difference
is that teachers are the only ones at work.
There are two students at school and they stand bewildered outside the front door.
They are the only ones to wave and shout herro to me
and give the compulsory giggle, hand over mouth.
I change my shoes and deposit my umbrella
Someone else`s umbrella I borrowed from Wednesday
When the skies came to Earth, so heavy--And the river was pregnant with new life.
Yet they tell me the storm will in fact arrive today
And I am reminded of Carolina, of Fran, and of many we were not prepared for
as we looked out our windows through ekses of masking tape.
Now I look out the open window as I walk up the stairs.
A breeze waves to me in gentle repose.
She will work hard later, she assures me.
We are teachers without students today.
The bell chimes for its own benefit, in protest that it must be present here also.
I greet my colleagues.  I stamp my inkan.  I prove I am here.
I sit at my desk and remember the empty streets.
In the calm before the storm.

(copyright 1999-2000 Lynley Asay)