FIRST WINTER STORM, 2016

Wind bangs against the mountains,
cold on warm rips and tears
cracks in air as crooked fingers
touch the ground with ‘lectric
yellow light to spark a roar
upon the metal roof in panting
pulses beneath soft gray
as if the gods were making love
in a bass drum, small canyon room
upstairs spawning muddy rivulets
towards a dry creek bed between
wet sycamores undressing
long white limbs suggestively
spilling November tans and browns
upon the green to stand naked
before an eager flow gathering
rafts of clothes upstream—

or as angry as the 60s
marching to make love
instead of war, or vice versa—

or with the best intentions
for all we’ve done today,
come to wash the dirty laundry,
our tracks and waste away.

1.81″ @ 7:30 a.m.