THE WIND'S TALE
It starts with the birds. Wind can place them
Where it wants them, a kind of skywriting that
Is so elaborate cultures could actually read them
As they moved upon the wind, daring and articulate.
The thermals curve and swirl. From here flight seems
Without effort and the wings upon them must be an
Imagined sound of wind over primary flight feathers.
The temple of night snow under a full moon.
The wind holds the flakes and I have heard them
Touch the ground, owned by the wind, made to
Describe the landscape by the wind, shown the drifts
White and deep before the howl of blizzard interrupts
The lesson and confirms the myriad voices this whiteness
Contains. “I will hide everything from you under the pleated
Drape of snow. And we will recognize this same tale
In the desert, in the sand dunes and the wind voices
Caught in canyons and dancing with dust devils, tornados
Hurricanes and other extreme manifestations, wheel
Within wheels spinning with millions of copies of mantra
Locked inside them.
This is that same wind. “ Open your hand and feel it
Move over your fingertips. We will ride the great vehicle.
We will be the be the birds floating over the highest places.”