The House Down the Street Receives an Inordinate Number of Invisible Guests

We pulled hastily at weeds,
Too lazy to dig for the root.

Two pale, rail-thin children
Are not a good choice for assistant gardeners.

We were fairly far south of San Francisco,
Plucking at the garden of the house down the street,

But we had no trouble discerning that
The ground was suddenly incorrect.

Our mother herded us
To the center of the lawn,
Away from the once placid pine trees,
Now threatening to lurch forward
And throw their weight down on top of us.

We heard later
That in some places the street had rolled,
Sending waves along

Like the swells we would vainly attempt to surf
With our undeveloped, flailing bodies
At the beach down the hill.

That evening, we would find,
On the floor of our living room,
A single framed painting,
The glass half-heartedly cracked.

But at the time,
The most memorable evidence
That the earth was truly moving

Was the perfectly coordinated rhythm
Tapped out by the many knockers
On the doors of the house down the street.