The wind blows powerfully
emptying trees
of dried branches;
the ground is now littered
with kindling.
There are waves
in the bowls of water
set out for birds,
the dog, cats.
Birdfeeders had to be removed
from trees; birdseed strewn
only on the ground
(with a mind to where
it would land
in the wind.)
Porch pillows and rocking chairs
had to be secured.
We now know where everything loose
is on the old barn.
Inside the barn,
chickens, guineas and rabbits
must endure constant racket—
a howling even louder
than the guineas’ penetrating squawks.
The blue sky is a theater
of constantly changing cloud formations.
Traveling home from the city
earlier this morning,
the wind almost blew the car out of my lane
a couple of times
and I drove through patches
of brown, dust-filled air—
always a sobering sight,
reminiscent of legendary Dust Bowl Days.
I dare not hang clothes outdoors to dry,
lest they end up east of here.
Maizey can’t seem to decide
whether to stay in
out of the turbulent air,
or go out and see what
she can do about it.
The tipi
still stands, flapping;
a cedar branch
has fallen beside it.
Walking into the TBW
(as they say,
a bit sarcastically I think,
over at the Blakley farm:
“The Blessed Wind.”)
is a carnival ride.
Nature has our attention.
So, we hammer down loose things,
secure what would blow away
and hold on,
in awe.