The nighttime
is a wet black pit
that crosses
grass and mud
then cuts
through a metal fence
eroding the earth under
the security
of its’ silver chained links.

A small thin swirl
of white smoke
spills out of
my electronic
cigarette
as I try
to stay awake
and alert.

The storm begins again.
making trees lean heavy
with the weight of
this wet wind.

It’s not
the salty tears
of an exhausted
atmosphere
crying here
but blood,
acid tainted
and flowing clear.

The rain is
an inch thick
translucent
membrane
covering
grey stones
on an old
gravel road.

Cold as death
the whip cracks.
White light
explosions paint
the grey cloud covered night
with new puffy colors.
Thunder sounds
its vicious strikes
as nature’s menstrual cycle
flows steady over
my vibrating windshield.

The storm does not subside
but blurs the street lights
that ride parallel
to my late night patrols.