Edwin Ford Piper

THE MOODY wind—is this its grudge day? Whoo!

Against the dusty sky, in the late sun,

A veering flock of mottled pigeons bounce

From the shoulders of a gust. In our village street

The captious wind runs races with itself,

As a dog pursues its tail; with brute persistence

It buffets leafless elm and maple bough,

Tears at the stiff-armed oak.

From the window-pane

Little Fred looks for his father—he grew tired

Of playing outdoors with so rude a comrade;

For the wind hustles, keeps on pushing people,

Makes the street a barrier to neighboring houses,

Besieges timid folk.

Now the reddish sun

Abandons the world to the wind. In alien twilight

He whistles at keyhole, hisses at the window,

Makes all the timbers groan, exults—cuwooff!

Our lamplight in the kitchen shudders, staggers,

As Burton blows in from the writhing darkness,

And sets both knee and shoulder to the door

To force it shut.

“Hooray! I want my supper!

Good thing the trees are rooted! How the draught

Reddens the stovepipe!”

Supper chat is over.

I look out; clouds are hurrying past the stars;

I listen to the rising talk of the wind:

Puff, pant, moan, roar, and wail. It flaps and tugs

At fence and gate, it throws a wooden bench

Tumbling along the yard. I ask myself,

Has the wind any grudge against our house?

At bed-time it still rages. In the night

I lie and hear the creature—wiff, cuwooff!—

Rattling the sashes, bruising on the gable

The budding twigs of the elm.

I move to the window:

My husband sleeps as men who labor sleep;

And Fred and Jimmie both lie full of sleep.

Little Mabel stirs—is it that nerves of women

Respond to the nerves of storms? Cuwiff, cuwooff!

Unquiet stars. Dim leafless shapes of elm

Beating the dark between me and the stars;

Twisted at, jerked at, strained to the inmost heart,

Surging at the roots, moaning in the angry wind.

Why should this monster need the help of night?

The rushing presence, with invisible bulk,

Has laid a heaving shoulder to my house:

The timbers strain, walls quiver, my heart shakes.

A thump, a crash on the roof, the bouncing slide

Of a brick—a dozen bricks—

“O Burton, say!—

It’s got the chimney! Bring the boys down cellar!

I’m afraid of the wind in such a night! Come, Mabel!

I’ll wrap you in this quilt!”

Cuwiff! Cuwooff!

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