The light of darkness

I push off from the classroom shore
as windows tell of wind and tree limbs wave
shadows on brick walls.

The way is worse
than forecasted.
To breathe means aspirating raindrops
that fall so furiously I've got five squelchy
toes in fewer minutes.

I throw a wake through intersections,
eddy out in the pools below stop signs,
water standing rim deep.

I hear sirens, and then smell fire.
Smoke's a strange odor in a deluge;
what's not so wet it can still burn?
The next six blocks are blacked-out.
Christmas lights lost their cheer,
street lamps lonely in the inky tunnel
of a street.

Approaching home, I squeeze a river
from my soft-palmed gloves
as I brake to slow this flow.