Four Poems

High Wind

for Adam Crothers

My father ploughing
on the hill:
a ground beetle
trailing a flight wing.

The cattle sound off
in the barn;
soon they will learn
the grass. The sound of

the flight of swallows
overhead
is overheard
chatter caught mid-flow.

A gust blows the trees
wide open –
they hiss like rain
on fire. The eye sees

one thing the heart reads
another;
in such weather
...