Winter Wind

I walk through the forest
on a drifting afternoon,
and the near-solstice light
cuts through the ferns, painting them gold,
painting the air silver,
and I stop to listen
to the single warble
of a hummingbird,
and to breathe
the sun-touched air,
when all at once the trees sway,
the tilting dance, the pre-wind brush back,
before the gust rolls through,
and I stand there, listening to the branches whistle,
the creak of one tree running into another,
the smooth, winter wind,
the wild dance,
the great circle,
as the Douglas firs
catch the wind in their branches,
and bellow, and bellow, and bellow.