Third Movement

It falls from the late, grey winter sky,
first a few drops, then finally in sheets.
The rain falls, relentlessly, for days on end
with all too brief pauses, just long enough
for a lone cat caught under the car to be driven
back to the safety beneath a house.

There are people caught in the storm, with no house
to find shelter in. They are exposed to the sky,
no roof over their camps. I pass them, as I drive
home from a long day at work. Silver sheets
of rain striking the windshield fast enough
for the wipers to remain turned off. No end

is in sight, clouds lie in wait at the end
of my vision. I travel toward my house,
my home, content and warm, I move far enough
away from the homeless under the dark sky
that my mind forgets. Imagining crisp sheets
on my bed, soft and inviting. Clean and dry

wrapping my bed. The downpour pauses as my drive
concludes and my daily routine ends.
With the heater turned on, I slip between the sheets
of my neatly made bed. As warmth fills my house,
my mind drifts far from the wet sky
above and I am comfortable enough

to doze off. Music is playing quietly enough
for me to recognize the song playing from my drive
earlier, when lightning danced in the sky
to the crashing of cymbals at the end
of the third movement. I saw my house
lit up by the flashes through sheets

of rain, very different from the sheets
I now lie in. I slip far enough
into sleep that thoughts of my house
are gone, the day slips away, no long drive
is ahead, for the day has reached it’s end.
As the clouds break, showing a clear night sky.

The sheets of rain don’t touch me in the end,
in my house protected from the sky.
Is my drive for safety enough?

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