Rain rolls in,
and then I realize,
it’s like fog.
My San Francisco fog.
And my hearts leaps,
But in Rio de Janeiro fog does not come with fog horns—
those blasts that lulled me to sleep on so many nights.
there are roosters,
as the sky turns dark at 5:45pm.
The top of the mountain is now obscured.
The favela in the distance is all but swallowed.
Looking out from my desk,
like a single ship floating in a storm.
Like San Francisco.