I watch the wind pass over grasses,
their long backs bending,
bare branches clawing at the clouds.
Along the shore, it lifts the foam
and carries it beyond the breaking wave.
Dried leaves whisper at my feet.
A scent arrives
with nothing here to name it.
Some winds seem to linger,
turning through familiar trees.
Others travel high,
past countries I have never seen.
I wonder what remains in them
of all they have touched.
When strong winds are coming,
I climb the dune
or go down to the lake
where nothing stands between us.
It tangles my hair,
pushes me forward,
makes me lean into the next step.
Something of a distant place
seems to reach me there,
enough to make me want
to follow it back.
Before a storm,
the air feels electric.
I stand inside the moment
before anything has happened,
feeling how much could.
And in winter,
snow gives the wind a body:
a turning,
a gathering,
a white ballet
across the dark.
There are winds that come too close,
hot and heavy,
their breath against my neck
until even breathing feels like work.
Then, after the long summer,
I catch that almost metallic smell.
Cold is gathering somewhere above us.
I breathe it in with relief.
Soon I can turn inward,
settle among the animals,
feel their sleeping weight against me.
Soon I can let a quiet day
be all the day asks.
But I remember the last monarchs,
how the sky had been full of them,
then almost empty.
I watched the few remaining
and wondered if they could still go.
For those who could not,
I wished an easy death.
The wind moves over
what is leaving
and what has found shelter.
I close my coat.
Far out on the lake,
another wave rises.
Still, I go to meet it.
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