Flipping the whole sleek page,

flipping it fast over and above and across the county

lines,

dismantling the gossip of hen and pol,

shuffling the round white eggs of the altered, the sports,

the loners and spooks,

dismaying the racket of clubs met over booze –

the black wind prowls from the north.

The black wind, its black ears so deep they

hear the ocean two hundred miles away,

its tongue so wide it licks the green up out of the corn,

black wind with a tail to knock nesting stars

out of the thrash of the trees,

paws shod to pad the smoke of the stacks, the smoke

in the talk over high wires,

eyes glared to a distance two miles high and two states south,

black wind with silver hung from belly fur.

With teeth like farm equipment, the wind bites down.

It bites up and shreds hens ears corn forks stars

clubs eggs and comfortable politicians.

It roams at will and Will moves indoors,

it drives Harry and Sandra and Bucky off the bridge

bulging from pole to pole

into the river singing and the dog makes it to shore.

The dog makes it to shore. And then what?

It’s a miserable thing to see a dog stand like that,

filthy wet, curled fur slick against its bones,

it’s a miserable thing, that dog, alone down there,

everyone behind shut doors watching the blue eye,

not a friendly watch open for simple help.