Dust devils jump
a field of stubble, red breath
sucking the paper trash.
Schoolgirls squeal as a flirting gust
throws up the skirts they can’t keep down
while wiping at sand and tears.
A downburst punched the cafe's
picture window, spilling patrons
out of their chairs when the plate glass
split in a ten-foot web.
My mother walked toward the funeral home
clutching the shoulders my father's gray suit,
his last change of clothes caught in a gale,
a twisting specter.
A girl in the treetop looks over the town,
wrapped around a swaying bough
as the wind's warm tongue and soft teeth
try to tell her that everything she sees
will go away.
Slipstream, #35, 2015