The moan returned, and it always came at precisely the wrong time.
In these conditions, concentration pulls away and tapered focus spreads
its photons in flooding streams of white thought.
The wind knows this and is relentless, always. Careless
to human needs for calm and order, real food and clean water, it blows-
every which away.
The rising whine coming in all corners should have reminded us, nothing
is sealed completely. Same never remains cremated-
change or would be by the same name. Ashes. Should anyone notice.
It is justified, to claim not to hear, to feel no steam rise, to believe
this arrangement is permanent or static. Hope is clean energy.
Electricity is not a friend.
Dear me. It could never end. A break, a breath, and shriek,
its thick harmonic resonance extending its reach in waves.
The breeze dances its heart out down in the valley.
It will twirl itself out haphazardly and we will see
no steps in the routine. This storm was not predicted.
Every light word goes out the window.
The pain sank through.
Painting by Jerônimo José Telles Júnior [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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