The storm recedes; birds find new branches.
There is wind, not wake, from the cars that pass,
and tremulous shadows spread on the walls. Why then,
my love, is your gaze so clouded?
I point out the bedroom window--look, the robins, dripping madly beneath the misted rainbow--
and hear the hoary creak of my own error.
The rain has returned: thunder rolls
back around.
