About living a climate where wind is the most powerful feature, when it chooses to be.

Listening

The first wind chimes, pretty painted metal,
guest-given, did not last. The strings

too weak to withstand the wind,
they fell with a fine, final ring.

The wooden chimes clatter
like a child hitting sticks, then stop.

They’ve tangled, as if pulling arms to chest,
leave the wind itself to alert the house.

Wind more powerful than chimes can sing
blows the watering bucket past my window.

That other sound just now was the trash truck.
I rush to retrieve the barrel rolling into the street.