Again, for the second night,
stupendous winds in the dark.
I should take greater note of it —
after all,
everything is a mission —

but instead I sigh
and turn my face from the window.
It will wait, I say,

but will it?  What blows across the weeds
tonight?  Is there angel or demon
in that wailing?  Some lost spirit
looking for a translator?

The wind doesn’t care. 
It tells its stories
to anyone who will listen
and leaves it up to me
if I want to answer.

It will wait, I say again;
less certain, though, I fight sleep
and wonder if there is something
I should be doing now
that should not wait. 

Everything is a mission,
and who am I to decide
not to undertake it?

Knowing
that demand, I turn my face
to the wall anyway.
Sleep robs the wind of me
tonight, but the wind
will wait me out, knowing
I will have to respond
eventually.