Three Out of Four Horsemen Leave the Paddock

The storm brings steely hail, tinnitus
Drawn on window panes, and it’s eerie,
And it’s funny, when you don’t need this

To tell you how soon and easily
You could go. But here you go, a gust
Of wind chimes dancing tarantella

As dead brown leaves caked to ground for months
Hurl their flimsy mess through the melee.
It’s nothing much. It will be over

Soon, but maybe not before it does
Some damage, maybe not before you
Manage to find yourself the wreckage.