Something More to This

Sit down, watch the mice scurry in the field,
The evening birds that squawk to raise the dead,
And let's not talk, draw no conclusion from this.
It’s late, rain clouds have gathered overhead
And the noise seems deep and never ending.
See neighbors hurry home, we wave to a good friend,
And the weight of work and unread mail and
All the other nonsense that still lends
Itself to worry feels somehow scattered,
Jumbled in an overhanging blur.
Then, it’s hard to think if anything else came,
Lost in a wash of common details that occur:
A deer ran past. A couple pressed up close.
A man held an umbrella and a cane.
Then nothing else but puddles in the dirt
To show the lack of rhythm in the rain.

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