First dry leaves rattle against my window.

Then air howls and a low thumping begins.

Heavy things fall while our beef cows wander

to shelter in the canyon, eyes downwind.

You don’t close drapes against a Santana.

Better to watch as the desert’s unhinged.

Be the necessary witness, if you can,

while the wind flings weeds at our barbed wire,

strips petals from blooms, and batters pecan

saplings to shreds. There's always risk of fire

and fingers of dust sneak under the door

bringing in with them a new sort of trial.

You know, I remember when I was four,

I longed to play tumbleweed games of chase

and waltz with trees across the sand floor.

But mother moaned and covered her face,

curled up in bed, “The wind makes her loco,”

Pappa explained. “not her fault, not her choice.”

By morning, the Santana had unlocked

a dusty new world where my only care

was that my little mare’s swollen eyes leaked

black sludge. She couldn't see the stiff dry birds

scattered across my father’s fields.