The head winds in these times:
a gale blown in from the south
drives the sea to a craggy appointment.

It makes a shuttered room clean,
just enough light to warm
pen and paper bound with years

and a hum of words seldom spoken;
music always finds air to move,
wind deciphered by water and rock,

passed along from stone to ear,
to imagination on its hind legs,
to hand and pen, to warm paper.

(top: markjohnson.photoshelter.com; bottom: oregonstate.edu)