Wind Picking Up

ALL DAY, WE TALK
about “the end of the world”:
the sun,
black as sackcloth,
the 
moon, as blood—
country children, the afternoon,
smell of petrichor, wind picking up.

The bluster silences the others still out front.
She appears, glowing above the field out back—
like fabric in the wind.

CardboardAngel

*[ WSB ].