Gerry Jacobson

I Drink the Clouds

It’s been years of drought, and we’re all watching anxiously. The weather forecast for September is “fine”; but what does “fine” mean?  My face is outside the sleeping bag; the tent door is wide open. That first soft kiss of raindrops. La Niña comes at last. And rain drips through the night.

I walk, huddled in a parka, hooded. The glurk of red mud on my boots. Grey mist in the valley.

staring out…
sodden kangaroos
watch a lone walker

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About the Author

Gerry Jacobson lives in Canberra, Australia, and can be found writing tanka in its cafés. He was a geologist in a past life and now celebrates reincarnation as a dancer.

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