a sheaf of wheat
leaning upon itself—gusts
battering
a sheaf of wheat
leaning upon itself—gusts
battering
your dog eying me
as I pass—another dog
barking downwind
the rarest spot—
cold wind calm, inhalation
ever inheld
“I would take a gale
blowing straight into my face
over a crosswind”
sometimes bodily—
another branch—fatigued—
surrenders to storms
whether
turning into fitful rain
or returning
sunset—wheat blown
in each gust’s direction
without concern
currents in wind
or water—gales or rapids,
breeze or eddies
needless reminders—
gusts again throwing rain
at windows, nudging
in sleep,
a sort of surf, on waking
a squall