Buket Lawang

Rain falls hard here and straight.
That is no solace for our wet laundry.
Or the hornbill wedged in its hardwood.
Now the river is freeway.
Hanuman and his court have retreated to the trees.
Little red soldiers scurry across my tin roof. Nature's drummer keeps their steps tight.
No one steps out of line.
The voices of villagers sound
like the moans of waking or startled animals.
Hanuman howls and seethes,
barking like a gunshot,
at the rain. Something uncontrollable. beyond understanding.
It's us howling.