It appears that I started this sonnet in January 1993, after two close quakes and too much rain. I remember that the second earthquake was so abrupt it shook the water out of my nightstand drinking glass but left the glass standing.

I woke too warm at three the other night,
removed my shirt and stretched back into rest,
and then the earthquake jolted left and right
and left, and left me too alert and stressed.

I read last night, in bed before I slept,
for I was too fatigued from overwork,
when suddenly the edifice was swept
in upward violence and downward jerk.

So first the Hayward lets a little go
and then the Calaveras is at fault.
The rain we wanted now we want to slow
as we are hit with nature’s hard assault.
A cold reminder solids don’t exist,
and life’s a lease on portions of the mist.