Sonnet sequence II

II. Father Time's Flail

Shimmering ponderosa needles bend
to scouring wind. Through dry grass and barren
chimneys of rock, hot air's sucked up, ascends
in swirls. Adiabatic forces warring
with prevailing winds send dead leaves scurrying
this way and that. The air's full of chaff,
stirred by some sky-god farmer hurrying
to thresh his harvest. His crop's half straw, half
dirt. He winnows it, needles and dust
in constant crazed motion, random drunkard's walk:
leaf torn from stem, grass-seed from stalk,
pulverized, ground fine and red as rust.
Time laid by his scythe today, to wield
wind as a flail in an empty field.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside