Comments and critique appreciated

First Pacific Storm of the Season

A typhoon is here, they say.
Or almost here,
blown in from Taiwan or Indonesia.
What's left of a typhoon, anyway.

Grey skies, raw wind,
and tomorrow, they tell us,
torrential rains.

A typhoon? Absurd.

Aren't the ashy shreds of cloud,
tinted gold and mauve
as the sun sets,
the same rich grey of every autumn storm?

Doesn't winter always begin this way,
with a careful cat's paw
thrust into October?

One storm, to test the waters.
One redwood tossing, sea heaving
monstrous roar
of pelting rain.

One trumpet blast heralding
long nights and dark days,
cold as a grave,
to make us shut our windows at last,
and pull black leather close around us,
whimpering at unaccustomed chill.

This is the first Pacific Storm of the rainy season.
Pacific.
The irony of Magellan's name
for this ocean
tastes fresh and salty
as the waves crash in, dull as sea glass,
dark as the coming Solstice.