Rio Vista


We don’t know why it rises inside us,
when the wind like a wave
moves through the wild field
like water, smooths the grains in one direction,

a feeling not quite keen with joy
or danger at the end of the decrescendo,
not startled, not astonished,
for it is wind and we’ve seen it before,

but something speaks in that moment,
something whispers to the ears of grain
and inaudibly to our ears
and we turn left and right to find the source,

break the trance so not to appear under its control,
though as we walk farther, as it subsides in us,
we know we were empty,
and like a well the wind has filled us.

By Jeff Burt