Fools long gone, what would I know of spring? On the other side of the sill rain beats like a drum corps saluting its flaming ship. I can no longer project daylight’s certainty and in the vague of my fatigue eddic giants maraud the sonic forest as cold bark and dirt sputter forth their prophecy. I hear the train in the village blasting its brains into the night and leaching into memory of disembarkment. Rain, an indifferent form of sorrow spanning my lakes and mountains of shadow sky the signal of terrestrial abyss the melter of monuments the maker of mud the exhumer of graves the diluter of blood is all I know of spring.