Ooh

The wind’s sounding humanish
At the moment, conversing
In tones suggesting surprise,

Half-conspiratorial,
Gossip. Actual people,
Weekending in high country,

Are actually gossiping,
And talking about outfits,
Plans, and opinions, as well,

The usual nothing much
That serves for human bonding.
The wind’s more interesting

For not saying anything,
For alternating between
A hissing in the branches

And a guttural brown noise,
Sotto voce in the seams.
Brains used to language get snagged,

Now and then, by its whooshing,
And the actual chit-chat,
Now and then, turns to the wind

Itself. While someone’s telling
Other hikers a tall tale
About a large rainbow trout,

A couple struggling to load
Their gear back into the car
Complain about the strong gusts,

And a child hunched down in rocks
Close to the edge of a cliff,
A little too close, shouts out

That the wind sounds like a ghost,
Which tells you what ghosts sound like.
They sound like the wind, like voice

With emotional clamor
But no words. Which is eerie,
Given your ghosts are your words.