Concealment

Don’t listen.  Wind says bitter things at dead of day.
Sit with your hands cupped numbly over ears,
Eyes shut from seeing light fail early, far too soon.
The gray moans haughtily across the roof,
Glad that I am cowering;
And Sun sees only the obese backs of clouds
That cluster on the storm like flies on rot.
And we below the clouds, what shall we do?

Close your…