Window at Midnight

Steady rain comes down
to saturate the earth in spring.

Storm clouds hang low all day,
and the north is an ominous sheet of gray.

The horn of the train calls through the night,
while thunder peals
over a field of shadows,
    grown out of the winds of iniquity.

My thoughts are unchained,
running wildly beyond my dreams.

Lightning splits the balance of the night,
cutting like a knife through a shroud.

The train squeals by at the crossing,
fading away
after the thunder has died,
    and only the steady rain comes down.