NORTHWEST WIND
by Joel Smith
What is this wind that blows just so, chasing ashes from the fire that was a young hunter's heart, stirring embers to glow brightly where flames once leapt
...that speaks to me in the raspy voice of the rutting bull, the two-note symphony of a high-flying goose or a distant hound barking treed
...that carries sleighbell sounds of duck wings fanning cold air
...that moans and creaks through November's bare gray branches
...that smells of frosted aspen, rotted oak or sun-warmed sage
and draws long and mournful sounds from the hunter's horn, my soul