Photo by Nadiia Ploshchenko 🇺🇦 on Unsplash
The Voice of Wind
Listen to the wind, its
strings and strains of language and song
pulling you to your feet;
a ragdoll animated and living.
Listen to the wind as
it dashes
through
branches,
icy from the morning’s new fallen
sleet, picking up the trees cold whispers, as it
rushes
past.
Listen to the wind as it
raises up
the dust and
sends it
off spinning
in a dance
rapid and alarming,
a whirling dervish,
its core serene and still.
Listen to the wind as
it roars in outrage,
as it moans out its pleasure,
as it announces its awakening.
Listen to the wind as it lifts leaves
and sends them tumbling across grass tips in
tiny
crisp
somersaults.
Listen to the wind—
it runs in
rivulets and
rivers and
rapids through the air,
stopping for nothing, for no one, it rushes ahead
unafraid
unstoppable.
Listen,
the wind is drifting a piece of
your hair
across
your face,
it’s ruffling your sleeve,
it’s swirling
around you
like a
mischievous child.
Listen, the wind is soothing you like a warm bath,
liquidly flowing across your back,
through your hair.
Listen to the wind push
waves
harder and faster,
crashing in
an explosion of
foam and shells and seaweed,
birds keeping
watch overhead
for their fishy dinners,
sand rolling up,
tossed and flipped,
cradling upturned shells,
cupping salty water.
Listen to the wind as the monarchs fly in enormous scarves of orange and black,
skating and fluttering along the wind's roof.
Listen,
the wind is caressing your belly as you lay in bed,
raising the hairs across your thighs,
peeking into every crevice.
Listen to the wind
as it slides across your arms,
just passing through,
a restless visitor, a nomadic friend.
Listen—
catch its scent and song before it leaves you,
still and sparkling.
Coyote Laughing
Despair snags me
and drags me
down into its
murky cave
and envelopes me
in its ooze
so it doesn't feel alone,
so it can feed itself.
Unmoving, I sit and let
myself be consumed. Then
Coyote shows up.
Eyes blinding yellow,
he prods me with his
warm, wet snout.
Teeth hide
behind black flaps
of flesh; coaxing.
I run.
Terror flicks
my heels as
he chases
me
through the night
over moon-tipped
hills,
not letting me
stop or even
think.
Flight holds
my breath
hostage.
I leap over
rushing torrents
flattening rocks,
Coyote laughing
at my back,
pushing out
the clunk
of memory.
Gloom flies off of me
like a
storm of moths.
Hovering, I am
boundless.
Quickly, I take his
clawed limb in mine,
swift tricky sage
of the glowing
and wild night,
the same smile
lighting both
our mouths.
Some Instructions for Living
You’ll need a boat.
Preferably painted blue
or green, but not freshly.
It should be worn and
chipped, the sun-bleached
wood showing through
in strips and patches. Rough.
Maybe a few splinters
sticking out. You’ll
need a boat
and you’ll need
to find some water.
A lake is really
best. One with a lot of
muck near the shore so you
get to wade gingerly
through it to shove
your boat
out into the water,
using your paddle to
prop you up as you go.
You should probably
bring a small
snack, some seeds or
a few round
green grapes — tart,
crisp, bursting.
Sitting in the boat you’ll
want to lean
side to side, listening
to the water lap and
feel the thrill of
almost tipping over.
There should be a small
hole in the boat, just
enough to leak a bit
of water into
the bottom so you can
rest your feet
in the wet, dead
leaves and give the
water bugs a place
to swim. You can splash
around, making
tiny waves with your
toes. The sun will
be hot, so bring
a hat, but
don’t wear it. Set it
beside you and let
the hot rays penetrate
your scalp, turning
your nose and cheeks
pink, the tops of your ears.
You can row a little
if you want, but
once you get into the
middle it’s best to
just set the oars aside
and let the water push
and slide you across
its surface. Keep
your eyes peeled for
fish. Peer over the sides
into the depths and catch
a glimpse of the fishes
watery life, smooth
and sleek, cutting through
soft liquid. Then,
you might as well jump
in; that’s what you're there for
isn't it? Dive
in or tumble, tip
over the edge, and let the
green murky water
envelope you, embrace
you like a cool
aquatic lover. Let
your arms and legs
drift out so you look
like a starfish. Feel
your hair floating
around you like
a halo. Pretend
you’re a mermaid,
flapping your legs
like a tail. Maybe
take off your top and feel
the cool wetness
against your breasts,
let them hang
suspended,
cupped.
When you break
the surface, allow
the water to
roll off. You might have
trouble getting back
into the boat, but
that’s ok. You can just
dangle from the edges,
legs paddling the dark
watery depths, and
try again in
a little while. The
boat; your sweet
companion, your cradle,
your oldest friend.