The squall that brought the city to its knees is no more. What lingers are the howling winds and rain showers, that remind the earth of the storm's monsoonal grip. The sun occasionally peeks between the marching clouds, bathing the moist ground of precious minutes of sunshine. But when the stubborn nimbus, always on the lookout for changing winds hover over the weary metropolis, darkness cast a long shadow to everything the sky touches.
I went to Baywalk this afternoon, to see for myself the remnants of the storm surge. Gone are the piles of wood, human trash and putrefied animals. The air no longer whiffs of death and destruction. And the seaside, still empty of its regular audience was left to heal its tattered shoreline.
Strong waves still pound the sea wall, spraying brine over the nearby highway. It would have been fun to dash across and get drenched, if not for the thought of the water reeking body excrement and household waste.
And so I sat nearby and watched the dramatic pounding from a safe distance, a spot shielded from the open waters by a thin line of half-submerged barrier a league's distance from the shore. Knowing too well that had it been yesterday, the tempest would have taken whatever awe I have for the sea.
To be swallowed by terror, for the climate change we cannot undone.