Wind gusts through the trees
tumbling leaves to the roadway
where it snatches their rattling carcasses
and swirls them into fences
or against defiant weeds.
A whirlwind races in front of me
and dissipates as it slams into a house;
leaves lie in debris like confetti
no longer joyous.
I have a moment of wanting to run
inside the whirlwind’s twirling mass
like when I was a kid during hot,
heatwave-laden summers.
Dust devils sprang up in the backyard
lifting dust to make visible its path.
I’d run. Run fast to breach the edges
of whirl and stand inside.
My eyes closed.
My arms spread like wings.
My hair whipping in all directions.
I flew.
The wind tussled at my T-shirt and shorts
like feathers on a crow’s body.
The dust devil disappeared, interrupted
by the bulk at its base trying to soar.
Today the whirlwind is too fast
and gone.
I too slow.