MEDITATION IN THE OPEN-AIR GARAGE

Leaves have no choice

but to articulate the wind:

aspens like zills, aglint and atilt;

the willow, a lone zither.

Riffling the cottonwoods at dusk,

winds find me cushioned against

the concrete in the open-air garage,

facing the trees, the drive, the road,

the mountains up the canyon’s

other side, until an onrush bellows

a mindless heartless ecstasy

through the empty sack of me.