Losing my sleep

Its not the patter of rain
but murmurs throughout a journey.
Its not the warble of green frogs
but peevish sounds like wind scratching
dry leaves. Or the anguish of a tempest.

I’m no sailor to worry about storms
or whether the Great Bear is on its hunt
for a suitable winter refuge.

I’m ready to believe that we’re journeying
by bus, and it’s nighttime so we can forget
the petulant glances staring at our chuckles
and laughter.

Yet she’d surely disagree - it is rather
a waterfall narrating anecdotes
for so many eons…