I understand how it is that
people think the woods
are full of spirits,

with the wind,
a phalanx of spirits
rushing toward me through

the treetops. I see
individual spirits, too,
stepping from tree to tree

as I sit here. Raindrops
strike leaves like fingers
hitting keyboards, and leaves

around me glisten with
wetness and shake themselves.
Above, the sky begins

to rumble, and I hear the whoosh
of great, gray wings
pulling the sky down.

I get up, take heavy slow steps
that sink into the moss and
dead leaves and carry me out

of the woods and to my car.
From inside, I watch as the
wind rushes from the woods

and across the field, and
the rain pounds down
in thunderous torrents.

The great gray wings
lift up, raising the sky
and rush north, and in the

woods the trees shudder,
sending showers down,
and the earth smells new.

Footnote: First published in 1976 in a Midwestern literary magazine, the name of which has been lost.


About gwpj

Originally from Seattle, I now live in Sapporo, Japan, where I write, explore this city, read widely, and ask questions about things that i see as important. I'm also an author, with three novels published ("The Old Man and The Monkey", "Grandfather and The Raven", and "Bear: a story about a boy and his unusual dog"). For more information about my writing, drop by my website, at www.geogepolleyauthor.com.
This entry was posted in George Polley, poem, Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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