In the rural wilds
the wind drives life away
by the fistful
by the dustful
by the leaful.
We are graveled
and wind groomed
cow blustered, horse gusted.
Know that our limbs bend
manes twist
dirt mangles;
know that the air
weaves and unravels
makes porch pots shatter.
The bob and wheel
of air moves us
lifts us, rhythms us
rhymes us. Who could live
in stillness, plainless
sweepless
without the bloom of a dirty sun
the sharp stab in February
or the hot bent flame of June?