Wind Blowing at the Sun

All day like this, morning east,
Swiveling through south at noon,
Blowing west by afternoon.

Nothing much. Coincidence.
But it feels slightly spiteful
To someone standing in it,

Imagining the wind’s grudge
At the god that made its world—
Or maybe the atmosphere

Wants to pretend it’s in charge,
That it blows the sun around.
No one but human beings

Would pretend to such a thing.
No one but human beings
Would imagine nonhuman

Things behaving as humans,
But you can’t stop a human
From imagining the wind

Has attitude, intentions,
And pretensions, anymore
Than you can stop pretending.