Incessant sheeting skeins of rain
Cut across the morning’s grain
A sumi ink drawing could not perfect
Their sinusoidal curtains swaying.
Through ink black trees still I detect
Deep beneath the intellect,
A whiff of joy in the rush
And twist of this storm’s great bullneck.
There!–in the full onrush
Amid the rumble and the crush
Of tumbling skies and rolling air,
The spring time cry of a hermit thrush.