Snow air in the wind. It stings our lunch sacks,
arcs the nylon line. Being from the farm
you can take forever in your wild face
the boredom of wind across the boring glare.
On the farm, it’s wheat. Here, water. Same.
Same blinding. Same remorseless drive
of yesterday and dream. A car starts
on the moon and suffocating caves
the mountain lion leaves are castle halls.
This wind is saying things it said at home.
Paula, go upwind to spawn, years across
the always slanted buffalo grass
and centuries past wheels that mill the water.
Deep in the Bear Tooth range the source of wind
is pulsing like your first man in the wheat.
It’s not a source of wisdom. It’s a wise mistake.
The wise result: pain of hungry horses,
howl of wild dogs in the blow. You swim upwind
so hard you have become the zany trees.
Look away when the lake glare hurts. Now,
look back. The float is diving. Deep down,
deeper than the lake, a trout is on the line.
We are, we always were, successful dogs.
Prehistoric beaches burn each dawn for loners.
Listen, Paula. Feel. This wind has traveled
all the way around the world, picked up heat
from the Sahara, a new Tasmanian
method of love, howl of the arctic whale.