I can see the wind long before it blows against me.
Smooth clouds of invisible ether overlapping,
circulating, undulating. A polished burr of free,
lolloping, playful power. A delight. I suppress
my smile until sudden along comes a gust,
a blot of startled air tearing, rippling, possessed.
Exhausting, fading slowly then consumed.
I am a riddle in it’s grip, unsettled by it’s caress.

Wolves

There. Just there. In the distance.
There is a wolf calling. I think it is a wolf.
Some long distant compatriot, trying to awaken me.
I fear it has been too long. I seldom feel the cold.
Generations led to this, to question and not to obey.
I am trapped in a cage, numbed, desensitised.
Native Americans, it is claimed, used alcohol.
Humbling the ancient inside, shutting it in,
Drowning out the wolves trying to awaken us all.