Wind is drumming low and
hard against the soffits, roof
truss creaking, and now one
cat is pacing the storm
as it passes inch
by inch, drifting new topography
where the barn stood.
Wind is crashing into
that old shop, too, metal
siding bucking to break
free and that crazy wind vane
spinning like a rusty top, rooster
a shadowed blur against
white, white, this
hard blown snow.
orphan poems 