The wind last night kept breaking into song—
Not a song, though, to comfort children by.
It picked up houses, flung them down awry,
Upended bridges, drove slow trees along
A note so high
Removed an ear that listened. On the strand
Without a word this morning, sailors land.
White cars, their sirens off, wade silently.
Now crews inch by, restringing power lines,
Plowing aside white sparkling drifts of glass.
The wind last night kept breaking into song
Beautiful only if you heard it wrong.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 4 Number 2, on page 51
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