The wind is cursing a gale this morning,

Accosting my ears with his whuffs and gusts,

Calling it every name in the book, 

His job.

“But the world must keep on turning!”

He mocks. “What if it didn’t? Huh?”

I pull my hat down low, over my ears,

So I don’t have to hear it so well.

I muffle the swells of the senseless rage he’s blowing.

Why does he seem so mad at me?

I’ve been coming and going for centuries 

Without a word, a job to do, too,

Dropping these shells and sand dollars 

Out of the blue for lonely tourists to find

As they walk alone on the beach.

Maybes he’d like to trade places some day,

And I will blow, and he can swell, and wave

And drop low tide for awhile,

And see how he likes that?

-jenn