The wind is kicking again.
High in the hillocks and
trying something Venturi
enough to ease a head
strung out and spun higher
than the banks of water color
pretending to be.
Bite the air. It tastes
like good weather.
The kind of weather
that begs new memories.
The kind of weather
that sings sharp and clear
like band saw blade
contrails cutting with the grain of
golden blued violent cloud wash.
The wind is kicking again.
The cigarette has gone out.
The moon will be up
over the valley and
the hill is a terrible place to be
after dark without a jacket.
Time to go.
