Poetry by Chris A. Smith
The wind is wild and self-willed,
and I mark its passage through the trees,
shaking them like marionettes,
the neighbor’s rainbow flag snapping with each gust.
High-pressure systems, temperature inversions,
ocean upwellings, the Bernoulli effect—
the language of meteorology fills my head.
Still, there’s mystery in the wind’s rough grip.
Next to me on the couch a sleeping cat,
an ouroboros of fur, snoring lightly.
I scratch behind his ears and,
still half-asleep, he flexes his paws,
his tiny motor rumbling to life.
He’s warm, and smells of sleep,
whiskers twitching, eyes dancing behind his eyelids.
I watch the trees tremble, and try to imagine his dreams.
Chris A. Smith is a writer in San Francisco. Though trained as a journalist–he’s reported on topics ranging from African acid rock to killer asteroids to revolutionary movements–he also writes fiction and poetry. Find him at chrisasmith.net.
