Wind comes with you in the door,
pushing past and kicking at the fire
like a pouting child, stirring trouble.
I hear your footfalls rattle morning cups
left about the table, as you tromp away the wet.
"Damn this farm and all the cows!"
Turning to the window,
I see the afternoon, gray and soft as mouse backs,
thunder-hump its way across the field
to swallow fence and barn alike in easy bites.
I wish that I were out there in it,
lost.
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