scouring snarling screaming whistling whining shrieking
through loose rattling windowpanes.
The gusts grate on my nerves, invade my sinuses and tear ducts
The wind blows as if entitled to be rude;
grit covers my desk, books, papers, and laptop.
It relentlessly scours the tenderness of spring, drives her back underground
forces baby birds deep into their horsehair lined nests under Mama’s belly
or topples the entire shelter onto the cold unforgiving ground.
The stoic horses turn their tails to the wind, heads down, attention turned inward,
perhaps glad that they haven’t shed all of their winter fur.
The ground is covered with twigs and broken branches.
I only hope the trees remember to bend.
The sand dunes grow and move, grain by grain —
slaves to the bully’s rule