Wind Patterns

     Nica Giromini

 

Mornings I

take my way

down the bend

to worn-down  

stones in a

cellar hole.

One step before

another, is that

not forward?

 

Of course, the

lows here are

wet with what

was rain. I know

I backtracked

to the point

where I lost what

I’m looking for

in the sound

of the field and

 

hearing it, I

stop in. I put my

nose in

ground. Flush

to the edge

of that hole

to hide from

wind patter

that is returning.

 

Have I left it

out? I thought of

a way how:

shadows of a

few birds fly

off across this

old field’s face.

Never mind.

That’s not flight.