Late Night Rain on Windows

I like being out in wild, wet weather,
when it dribbles into my hair, my eyes.
When getting soaked through ceases to matter.
When it is impossible anyway
to become any wetter than I am.

But at night someone turns up the volume.
Maybe it is the act of lying down
that lifts and recharges the hearing sense.

The immense tonnage of my head, heavy.
Now an immovable granite rock fall,
resting on the cool beach of my pillow.

The gusting rain spattering on the glass
fires me dead straight into some wild west town.
I lie still in my darkened shelter.

I can find no rhythm to its beating.
But the drummers madly lead the marching
through the night to the silence of the day.