Someone Shook the Globe

A fleet of dark grey sails rises from the Pacific and blusters toward the land. Dogwood leaves lie in forlorn rainbow-sherbet heaps around the front steps. Geese beat into the south wind, leaving a ragged banner of honks across the roofs of the city. Squirrels pull fallen chestnuts as glossy as horses from under leaves like splayed yellow hands.

The wind is under the soles of my feet. The wind draws grey curtains around the sleeping city. The wind is the sound of an eraser on a chalkboard. The wind is the sound of a broom on a sidewalk. The wind is inside me.

City lights, inverted starfield, floored by sodium-vapor glow. Down is up. Someone turned the globe and sent sparkles flying from every lamplit window into the lengthening evening. Rain glitters and pavement shines. Who claims this season is dark, when every wet surface reflects? Someone shook the globe and filled it with light.

The wind is under the soles of my feet. The wind tears holes in the grey and fills them with blue; tears holes in the blue and fills them with grey. The wind is the whisper of lifting fog. The wind is the shout of a red leaf falling on green grass. The wind is tilting the globe. The wind is inside me.