It's a haystack odyssey wrapped in white plastic lingering in thrashed fields, but there are no animals in sight. One day it a false spring and now crinkly ice patches sleep on the grass that looked like it was starting to turn green again.
It is 9 p.m. and the wind still knocks on the window. I like to pretend I'm in pioneer times in a little cabin in the woods throwing logs in the fire. I secretly wish the power to go out just for fun since it hasn't went out in awhile. I think to myself that I can survive in a new world. I can shoot a gun, and I don't live near a lot of people. I have a big enough yard to grow stuff even though my green thumb is non existent. I can grow tomatoes. They don't win the blue ribbon, but they are always sweet and juicy.
As much as I like the wind, I wait for spring and the onslaught of thunderstorms. Thunder so loud, it shakes the old walls and lightening so close, the hair stands up on my arms. I like the storms that can spawn a tornado but never do. And I am lucky for that because even though I have a tornado action plan- my feet and brain stop working when the touchdown siren goes off.
It's coffee at night while the wind blows. It's dreaming of living in the middle of the woods. It's dreaming of being a writer that people know. I sit here just thinking when I should be writing because that story is there. I tell it to myself when there is nothing but silence between gusts.
I close my eyes and open them in a haystack odyssey looking for moo cows that hide in overgrown shrubs, and I feel like I should write a poem about this moment but words flee and die in the wind.
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