As the Night Wind Does, Not As It Says

Where the wind throws itself down and out

Of the finger canyons every night

Or nearly—many mornings as well

And some afternoons—it almost gets

To the point where it seems like your kin,

As in, you know—you can choose your friends

But you can’t choose family—that kind

Of kin. Distraction in your bedroom

And a nuisance at your kitchen door,

As a lost soul when it’s beautiful

That’s an annoyance when it isn’t,

And there’s truly nothing you can do

To stop it, shush it, or to slow its

Rushing through, if you yourself don’t move.