Walking into the wind

Of all that I love

I think this day

I love walking into the wind

of a late afternoon.

If you listen

with your nose

you can smell faraway cities

like Denver

and beyond.

You can smell the just-gone sun

like cream on the surface of the air.

You can feel the playful wind

come in under your shirt

and make balloons

there.

You can lean in to the wind

laid like the warm palm of a hand

against the side of your face.

Do you know how lovely

and dear a thing that is?

It is too windy for birds

to be aloft

and so

in your heart

you fly in their stead,

and the dogs strain at their leashes

to go to the places they smell.

The clouds huddle together

their feet stained indigo,

and my hair flies

like a grey velvet skirt

spread out

in the sky behind my head.

Two men in slim-legged slacks

and cashmere sweaters

carry a small white dog

and the wind

thrashes her fur

about her tiny self.

They turn to watch me pass.

“What a beautiful child she is,” I say.

“Nay, she is no child,” says one man back

in a thick brogue from Scotland

where they know wind.

“She is,” he says, “seven years old.”

“Ah then,” I bend down and say

to the dog directly,

“What a privilege it is to be carried on your walk

in this wind.”

—2014