The Long Black Cloak

Anything that refuses
To stop doing eerie things
Creates a minor new world,

A cloak wrapped around itself—
One morning, the canyon wind
Settled into a vortex.

Sometimes it spun more slowly.
Sometimes it was howling fierce.
Sometimes it engaged with rain.

But all morning the wind blew
And would not wander further
Than its invisible core,

From which it pulled up the dust
That it spun into a shape
From canyon floors to haunt us.