Outside, the branches of a young birch
Perform their Satanic dance.
Their shadows are multiplied
On the dull white walls
By the array of streetlights
Standing lonely sentry to the pavement.
The air gains voice as it howls
Through the glass, through the blank shadows,
To tell of maniacal sightings
And fantastical nothings.
As the droplets begin to herald
Bleak dampness on the dusty ground,
Time is slowed to the point where
Things move hairsbreadth by hairsbreadth,
Dazing the cognitive skills.
The outraged air strikes the droplets
Against a sudden barrier in the air,
The invisible glass of the window,
Bringing its roundness to a demise,
Sheltering the fragile imagination.
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