On The Sickbed

The slashing rain,
out there —
Howling cacophony
from the sky,
the earth drowned,
sobbing,
red lights like wounds,
blurry
in the miasmatic
air, the scent
of rotten leaves,
and hints of feet.
Wind patrols,
throwing the fists.

April,
the combat of seasons,
elemental trickery,
weather treacherous
above this city,
sovereign like a queen—

No one hears you !
except perhaps a toddler
crying
like a caged thrush