WIND COMES

This is no zephr; it comes high pitched and loud, howling over the balcony, banging on windows. If it had a voice instead of a whistle would it warn of tomorrow, would it tell tales of broken ships and disassembled bridges, would it tell us of something it discerns, gotten deep from experience plummeting toward us from the sun. If so, would we listen? Right now, I am forced to hear.