When I look to the east

—For Chuck Schumer 

Rain falls steadily—
dances on the patio table 
drips down the sliding glass door 
drops from the birch trees’ feathery fingers. 

I force my attention to remain 
									outside 
away from the thousand cuts 
of a dying democracy—

from the languid 
writhing of dinosaurs 
sinking into black tar—

from the disappointment 
in those who have power     position     authority 
and still choose 
not to fight. 

Through the glass 
the rhythm 
of the drops 

is regular 
until it’s not—

soothing 
until it’s not—

and the rain 

becomes 
just another form 
of crying. 

by Gale Naylor