Rising hard over the cliff edge
Carrying the hunting hawks.
Suddenly it dropped at sunset
No more moaning whistle carving
My head into an electric string.
Stillness arrived with only the calls
Of meadowlarks, the setting sun
Turning the hills yellow, cold shadows
Fading under stringy clouds out west
With no hint of rain, purple gray, as if
There was never a wind to haunt me.
By morning that same wind came
Howling, tearing the tent apart
Cups and gloves blown away.
I could only wad everything
Up and drive off through stinging
Dust without even a cup of tea.