Going Home

by Brian Dickson

And it's raining. A ten-
by-twenty double-paned
window stands in their
way. The lady bugs
gamble and slam
against the frame.
Like round dice they roll,
some with wilted wings,
others crumple like paper.
No chance cracks
for them to escape.
Five-feet from the window,
the boughs of a live-oak
harvest a thousand
dangling drops.
Like a sprinkler, the tree
speckles sparkles of water
illuminated by the stoic,
lucid shield.