The History of Wind

Not saying the Deschutes sucks,
not saying it blows—
but the wind around this river mouth will shake your car on its springs,
slap-rock a top-heavy U-Haul, whiplash fish-tail a triple-trailer across two lanes—
that’s Mr. Wind. He’ll thrash a thousand miles of tumbleweed to flour-tine dust,
beat water to salt-free surf.

But when that big flood came down,
wall of water shoulder-high on the Cascades, thick with ice, stone, toothpicked trees
Mr. Wind was in front of it
and you should have seen him run.
Tail between his legs, he shot out of that narrow place
like a cork from champagne.

After it was all over he came creeping back through the canyons
tiptoe over stripped-out stone. Water was beading on bare clay
like blood on new-flayed flesh.
Mr. Wind settled in to play.
He called these new rocks home.

We’ve put up mills on every ridge. Give them a whirl, Mr. Wind,
cut me a slice of power. Spin air into gold.
Sing me a wire song, stone song, flood song, canyon song, traffic song,
always going with me, always home.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside