Don’t tell the mayor, but I went outside, just now: 7:30 on Hurricane Sunday morning. There wasn’t, for the moment, hard rain or wind; the wind comes in bouts. The street was puddled but not flooded, and the drains still drain, and the blacktop of the container dock lot was clear, though hard to tell apart from the equally-gray water; no part of the pier posts could be seen. Yesterday I could see two to three feet of striped post between the water and the dock. A police van drove along the dock; I felt guilty, like he would speak sternly to me, but he went elsewhere. Otherwise there’s no one.
On coming home, I realized I could see the dock from the high window in the living room. I’ll keep the stepstool there and watch, and I’ll watch the trees next door for the wind. Oh, it blows more strongly now.
I just saw one of the zillion little birds that live in the garden, struggling against the wind. I hear them, too, a few chirps (yes, I have the window open). The rain’s coming harder. Landfall’s supposed to be about two and half hours from now, in “western Long Island;” well, that’s us. Brooklyn, I mean.