by Jacquelyn Malone
The wind whines wild and compulsive,
spreading instability across the land.
Shamelessly it contradicts itself,
whipping—demented—in one direction,
then reversing itself along an already trashed path.
No one can forecast a steady state:
the wind, a pompous blowhard, has no firm compass,
diving into low pressure zones
that feed its ego.
So the flag, poor symbol, twists,
its snap hooks screeching against the metal pole
as though it were being flogged.