Huddled Beneath a Single Boulder

1.17.22

There are great winds this night
The texture of the darkness is different
It is not the indifference of stillness
as if we were abandoned to each lurking thing
that twig steps
It is not the kind attention of a breeze
nor the rally cry of east/west trade winds

Tonight it is a blind and frantic fury
a scouring search that is unfocused
but feeds into the intensity of itself

Trees are pulled from their roots
Bush branches lash back and forth
No animal moves willingly
and children cannot curl themselves
tight enough under their blankets

There is no rain
but there is no fire
It is so loud
we cannot hear each other

Nor, we feel, can the sun hear our cries
to rise