How can it
be—that the same
rush of quicksilver
wind out there motivating
berserk swarms
of blackbirds—and
acres
and acres of itchy tree
branches
to such
wild and irrepressibly
frantic mazurkas!—
is the same
one that currently
commands this old
mug clutching
Styrofoam
cups as he putters
down
endless long hall-
ways of co-
workers muttering—
something
or other
about—some weather!
we're having?
