little brother

felled: autumn wind west south-west If this wind were home and the tide was high or on her way in she’d be all arms and legs,  like the surrendering of evergreens that have spent their summer, dignified, giving in to the last of the mud tucked under and in the crotch of each of their roots.  All their lives have been a setback, being a seed in rock, and to think this is the only way they’ve been able to thrive.  Hasn't time and his more penetrating demands worn them down and though of course they weathered it, they did,  and their needles held up and through six or eight decades of such howling, hasn't that inevitable calm, been on the way, and then gust: it’s enough now: a slight fifteen miles an hour out of the west south-west will be enough coax to it.  All of autumn will be taken down and right now too, and the surrender, from the trunk up through of this one in particular, who I've been watching