Beyond the clouds crumpled page, a winter water-
mark of sun. The houses lean on the wind, another
transient body of wind within weather, an unbound
spill of smoke, soot to smudge these hills. A clutter
gates the raw fence of wood, woods where trees rake
air for what a wind can carrydust, leaves, paper
scraps which tell no story but that of tangled flight.
The hills ring, delimit a sense of risk. Seen, here,
from overhead, asphalts conduit sends and receives,
retrieves passing messages, overheard whispers
we cannot quite decipher. All along its edges
are scattered cast-off rags, torn strips of rubber.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 23 Number 5, on page 32
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