Things are wiggling and wobbling
And shaking and stirring and
I can hear the downstairs neighbor
Slam their door.

It’s all so infantile the way we
Hang on each other’s words
Waiting for some misplaced
Inflection and damning each other
For it.

The winds blowing harder now,
I can feel it. And yet,
The birds are still chirping even
During the storm.

Maybe they figured something out
That we haven’t quite yet
Maybe they are able to focus
On the fact the storm has to end.

Instead of focusing
On how long it will last.