It closes us in,
enwraps home, not unlike fog,
this tapping on window-sills,
this sloshing, showering, gurgling,
this curtain of busy needles.
We are maybe closer to each other
separated by it, under lamplight,
under the computer light,
casting reflections into the ether.
We were around a fire once
under a rock, telling tales
and casting spells.
The tapping filled the mouth of the cave.
I am not sure of what has changed.