Nights Adrift

The restless winds
molest without regard
to rights or right of ways

In the dark in my
windswept bedroom calmed
by a lullaby of distant traffic
on the road and in the sky

The wind
a twin to the Coronavirus
but with a less potent embrace
and a release from summer's
warm, wicked, wiles. I turn
wearily to tomorrow's rising
tide of infection, conflict,
deception and death
clinging to the hope
that it is better
to be counting
than to be
counted