Cold Wild Honey

The winds in Alice Meynell’s summer,
Brimming with pathetic fallacy
And a kind of ruthless agency,

Pursue their enemies. Be careful,
And don’t get in the way of those winds.
You’re drawn to the notion, admit it,

Of wind on a mission, no empty
Motions. To be such a wind, stalking
The echoes of this narrow canyon,

Mingling raw ruckus with mangled yips
From the coyotes up at the rim.
Oh, you’re not howling for being pushed

Around, chivvied through the artifacts
Of animal worlds hugging the ground.
You are the hunting wind, rough weather,

You hiss as an assassin and snarl
Like a lion pride warning the rest,
To survive has to mean surviving

At a safe enough distance from them
And their blood-foaming muzzles. You’re worse—
Solitary, unassailable,

The lion of dark midday, hunter.
The wind is not, in you, a warning.
Your wind, beyond bare living, savors

Immunity from dying, searches
Out challengers for top predator,
And, finding none, will go on hunting.