Morning settles glumly into afternoon
and mountains hunch, recalcitrant and dumb
under a weight of insistent wind.
In blue-green layers the trees, like chipped paint,
wait for a sluice of rain, a polishing
of sunlight. Clouds edge past, bit players
reluctant to hog the stage. Their chorus
has no speaking part; they mime commentary
on the day’s actions, then exit right.
The wind remains the protagonist, ranting
and posturing, filling ears with bluster,
reaching out to squeeze faces with cold.
There is nothing to be taken from this
so we turn our backs without applause
as the wind pushes dusk up the mountains.
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