Westbound and head first into
the unrelenting swell—a thunderclap
crescendo refusing to release
crashes over the plains, electrifying
the frenetic dancing limbs
of the cottonwoods, kicking up
their fallen leaves for one final waltz,
leaving no space for imagination—an
invisible stampede flushing the cavernous
west with bone dry whitewater.
A child's stuttering, dancing kite
issues an over-head reminder.
Draw the winds close—summon them
for a moment: pray together
the way you did in your mother's womb,
swaddled in the primordial fabric
of that roaring realm, which is both
the deepest inside and most intimate
outside, and bend with the path ahead,
until the winds press on your back,
the howling chorus quieting into
a voice, whispering: hush, hush.