morning poem, april 12, 2016

The wind in the bare winter branches
Is loud as the rolling surf
Loud as the breaking surf
Loud as the crashing surf.

It is high in the trees
And it pushes the little birds
That launch heedlessly
And are thrown back in the face of the gust.

On the hilltop, the long grass
Ripples and lays down to the west
Brittle twigs crack and dry pine straw
Flies through the air in the angry wind.

The sky is grey upon grey and darkening
The deer are hidden, the foxes are in their holes
Rain is coming
It will plaster the high, white walls
Like the firing of some brigade.

Copyright 2016

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