Wind in the loquat tree

I can't sleep but lie awake, restless in the sleeping hours.   No peace.  Through the window I can see above the loquat tree that the high wind pushes dark clouds overhead at pace.  The leaves of the loquat tree heave in the wind.  But their inconstant movements against the racing clouds give the dark hours of early morning an unreality.  Loquat tree cut out and pasted against a smokey black backdrop that is streaming past like a reel of black and white film.  Faint rays of moonlight do nothing except to add an eery, flickering luminescence.  A grotesque glow.  It allows me to see the streaming, tormented clouds.  Driven forward by raging bulls.  Nothing bodes well in the inconstant unreality of the early morning with high wind...  Nothing bodes well when the heaving of the leaves and the racing of the clouds are you and I flying in opposite directions, moving away from each other in opposite directions.  Speeding away from each other.  Blowing away with the wind.  Out of time, out of rythmn, arrhythmia, fraught, lost.  I am a loquat tree tossed in the wind.  You are the high driven clouds.  In between us is a tempest of space.  Grounded, skybound.  Imprisoned in incongruent spaces.  Touch shattered like glass.  Silent against the roar of the night winds.