Curlews swoop and roll
on a sky of burnished steel,
twirling in the wind which tosses limbs
and beckons. Tumbleweeds converge,
balled against the bank 
or nestled in a ditch, awaiting sun.

The flock passed again yesterday
headed down the road, the dogs
guiding them soundlessly, 
the shepherds bundled in caps
and carrying poles. One dog limped,
right front paw raised. The flock moved on
and the dog left its post beside my driveway.

Now the sheep are quartered two fields away,
and in the morning their calls
blend with the roosters. Wind,

when you stop stripping shingles
and toppling barns, speak to me,
teach me to fly.