Weatherman

A cloud spelled out a rune I couldn’t read

fast enough before it morphed into

another form that changed again, so I

recited something true enough from an ancient

book: “The wind blows to the south and turns

to the north; round and round it goes.” The screen

went blank and then the slip. No matter, I thought,

I’ll drive a truck. “The clouds are codes for reading

the blues,” I said beneath my breath as I

walked out into the rain with my umbrella

and attitude that kept me lean if un-

employed. A hermit thrush reported the dusk

somewhere in the woods on my way home and I

called back like a human bird who’d lost his wings:

“Light’s such a fickle thing but I sing for it.”