Which Way the Breeze

The portion of sky visible from my work table has dwindled to a few small patches between trees. Now, and for many months to come, the trees will see the sky for me, and I will rejoice in the whisper of their leaves.

Which way the breeze � by turns gray light and blue, wisps of hair-entangled cloud from morning until noon, that later melt away with age.

Suspended is the sweet smell of cottonwoods by the river and the mud along its
banks � through my open window, memory rushes in.

The barking of a dog � he knows, he knows, inside I feel him tugging at his rope: tumbles down the fence and out he bounds into the street, his ears up and his nostrils moist and opened wide, his claws eager to dig in, his spirit ripe to find a mate.

Which way the breeze � sparkling fields, sprouting seeds � such is the awakening of a bold, unfettered dream: the open road, the sacred rush of children�s feet.

I know my way from here to there, but never back again. I am home before I leave, and lost when I begin. Which way the breeze � a story waiting at my window. Which way the breeze � the tattered page where you find me.

May 5, 2006

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Which Way the Breeze
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