She grooms the woods vigorously,
gives the leaves tongues more audible.
She has bounded over the ridge with imprudence,
her petticoats flying, a broom of blue northerner in hand
she smashes the clouds riffs east of Appalachia.
Sometimes, you have the sensation
the world is spinning out of control.
Stiff winds are welcomed, doldrums are not.
On a day such as today, the world must have been created,
though probably not with air conditioned from heaven.
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