It’s swirling now around the planet
bumping the coasts of continents
with the miracle of rain
sustaining earth and flesh
by the design of details
yet to be noticed and digitized
when Dad would watch neighbor’s windmill
for confirmation, three days out
of the southwest, or by his journaled cycles
see seventy percent success. Instead of signs,
we await the forecast and cuss
the weatherman when wrong.
for Marge Stiles (1919-2005)
drycrikjournal 