Spit

The wind rides through like a gang of 

Sharp thieves, shaking down the trees.

"Turn yer pockets out."

It blisters across the lawns,

Through the summer furniture left out,

Chairs upturned as if guests left in a hurry,

Noses into the corners and slides through the Fence,

Thorough, like a shadow.

It reeks of brittle edge,

Unrolls blankets of harsh change toward winter.

"Ain't to be trifled with."

Spends the day, hollerin' 'n spittin', 

Stuffing treasured remnants of the warm fall in 

Saddle bags, under hats, in torn pockets.

Someone, it's the grocer's kid, 

Hauls off on a green-broke mare,

Undetected, out the back lane,

No saddle and a quick-made bosal,

Hell-bent to summon spring.