Wind Silver

Wherever the wind turns it finds silver:
on the corrugated surface of the lake
under the tossing leaves of alders
sliding along the stems of foxtail grass.

As if the world were made up of sofa cushions
and now and then God has to rummage for
spare change. He throws a handful of quarters
in the ocean, they turn into a school of anchovies.

I hold my hands up to the rushing sky
but the wind just riffles my hair.

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