Althea, it’s waning.

It’s raining

into the pale pail you sip

from.

It’s winnowing

beneath the billowing

clouds.

Specify the “it.”

What winnows

and wanes?

Althea flips her mop

of  hair. Her talent is looking

off  where

I am not. Something

wanes down the drain.

Something

whinnies as it billows,

a horse with a mop

for a mane.

The only solid is

the rain gauge

of  the page.