santos scribes

blows steady and sharp and true
finding me at dusk, dwindling & staying hidden in the pile of onyx hours thereafter
at daybreak it is there again; alive & sure, astute.

this manner of wind asks that you pay. attention. to. it.
give it your secret rumination, allow it to press you forward, stand taller because of it
change horizons before you speak to it-

what reason have you for being here?
for following me like you do?
why disturb all those dead grasses and preserved dirt?
why push emptied aluminum over all that permanent pavement?

why not pull at me like the moon?

black now and when growing full and blue and white with winter
her force springs oceans softly across her earth
she doesn’t screech and whine, pucker at my window glass
rattle in my veins before moving through the leggy pines herded in their short rows, breathing and swaying and shuddering as one-

and for what?!
the same new dawn will break tomorrow
in a place made cold and gray and still
like it’s never known wind or a january
never felt the tremble of its terrible building sound.