The wind imagines that the same meadows which enlarge me enlarge you.
That our words enter the same wind-tunnels. That the grass moves
in familiar ways and our hair tangles. Our arguments spin up from window jets,

from laughing summer, from the fairground’s pink music. We always walked
the bank of the stream, looking for black snakes. Down the crick, they’d say,
and we’d be there all day, our feet in icy flowback, kicking aside

the storm drain’s silvery curtain. To say water imagines we’ve given up
on wind. But we haven’t – the air can make us rich. I’m not sure
what Granddad imagined. Whatever the man said, it lapped

like the big thick tongues of money dogs, sit-up hounds. Make you cash
whether we build them or not. Just an option. Just hedging your bets.
Just loving the flow of things, the current of cold, wet north wind.

Wind pollinators, insects, whip the night. The trees answer them,
low in frequency. Low in the way the dying grass sits
along the back of the ridge. The way the combine engines

resonate, running overnight to get the beans in. Sign here. Triplicate.
Watermelons on the back acre. Hip waders to clear out
the chicken houses. Badland. Swamp grass. I’m not sure what

Granddad imagined. White space and white paper but you don’t
need to read it to understand it. If you understand, you won’t get paid.
That’s just the money making itself heard. 385 acres with nothing on them yet.

Don’t go walking by the hogs. You’ll rile them up. Don’t go on a windy day.
Your hair whispering. Your breath of cherry soda. Try standing still
when we are all circling the sun in the same direction. Try saying it

while the blades are thumping and thumping. Those money dogs,
sitting round with their tails going. To say wind imagines
we are spooling it up, fetching it forward. Around and around. Always.

The energy is clean – it’s the money that makes us dirty.
Try saying that to my face. Say it into the wind. It will get to me by and by.