Wind sizzles through the tupelo like gossip 
The comforting seesaw of frogs’ call and response 
now and then skips its rhythm, an old record, 
and the frogs bleat in unison like angry protesters 
The tree looks under water, the way every part of it sways in slow motion, 
unfurling in beautiful abstract designs like a drop of ink in a glass of water 
Rain clanging down drainpipes, rain slapping the gentle river, rain ping-ponging the metal roof 
A streetlight alights 
reflects off every trilling leaf 
the tree looks covered in frost 
mist rising from the river looks like drifting snow  
Three windows in a row lit up orange in the house on the hill 
three watchmen 
cozy in the summer snowstorm 
A long train whistle layers over and under the rain, the frogs 
the imagined winter storm 
and the deepening night