Impossibly long, impossibly loud rolls of thunder
from the west brought leaden rain to the night.
My shadow is moon-full of sorrow this morning.
No room for the children of Gaza.  Or the lumbering
tanks that flattened their mother's home.  No room for 
their father or the sniper who put the bullet so neatly
into his heart.  I'll give this sorrow to the thunder.

The volume is correct in every way.