To Settle Back Down

Every morning, before sun
Crests the canyons, wind rushes
Down their fingers, and dead leaves

Skirr the ground around like birds
With injured wings, like small mice
Frantic to escape something

From which they find no way out.
To your ears, it’s a weird sound,
That horizontal scraping

Of brittle leaves over stones—
Your mind, always misleading
You, as terror misleads mice.

It’s not a trap, which is why
These walls aren’t the edge of it,
Aren’t blocking the wind’s way out.