Wind
May 12 2024
It’s a foul weather wind.
The way it gusts.
The subtle change in light.
The hint of warmth
that seems unnatural
this time of year.
And how I feel in my bones
the sudden pressure drop.
But now, as well, the scent of smoke;
acrid
corrupt
unnerving.
An atavistic sense of dread
rises up in me,
some collective memory
embedded in my DNA.
I look southeast
and see a darkening sky.
The wind picks up
birds quiet
the smell of fire;
some ash falls
in coarse greasy clumps.
The world feels even vaster than it was,
and in my smallness
I am a whim
a speck
an afterthought.
And now, an uncanny calm
that’s even more ominous.
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