“I Like the Wind”
This poem by Robert Wrigley, published in the September issue of the New Yorker, reminds me of the place that I live. Today, the morning on which I first read this poem, was an incredibly lovely day, and these lines resonated in my soul. That might sound stupid, but I don’t care, not after a day like today. It was warm and breezy and perfect, and you could smell the change of seasons in the air. Chief was cavorting through the meadow, Rutherford pounced the sun-dappled grass, and Sharkbait — well, Sharkbait was her usual self.
This is Sharkbait and Rutherford. They are so in love that sometimes Sharkbait just has to put Rutherford’s tiny head in her mouth.
Anyway, this is Robert Wrigley’s poem! I love it!
I Like the Wind
We are at or near that approximate line
where a stiff breeze becomes
or lapses from a considerable wind,
and I like it here, the chimney smokes
right-angled from west to east but still
for brief intact stretches
the plush animal tails of their fires.
I like how the stiffness rouses the birds
right up until what’s considerable sends them
to shelter. I like how the morning’s rain,
having wakened the soil’s raw materials, sends
a root smell into the air around us,
which the pine trees sway stately within.
I like how the sun strains not
to go down, how the horizon tugs gently at it,
and how the distant grain elevator’s shadow
ripples over the stubble of the field.
I like the bird feeder’s slant
and the dribble of its seeds. I like the cat’s
sleepiness as the breeze then the wind
then the breeze keeps combing her fur.
I like the body of the mouse at her feet.
I like the way the apple core I tossed away
has browned so quickly. It is much to be admired,
as is the way the doe extends her elegant neck
in its direction, and the workings of her black nostrils, too.
I like the sound of the southbound truck
blowing by headed east. I like the fact
that the dog is not barking. I like the ark
of the house afloat on the sea of March,
and the swells of the crop hills bedizened
with cedillas of old snow. I like old snow.
I like my lungs and their conversions
to the gospel of spring. I like the wing
of the magpie outheld as he probes beneath it
for fleas or lice. That’s especially nice,
the last sun pinkening his underfeathers
as it also pinks the dark when I close my eyes,
which I like to do, in the face of it,
this stiff breeze that was,
when I closed them, a considerable wind.