by Vaughn Neeld
The wind comes from down the mountain,
sliding eastward along Front Range slopes,
swashing and blustering, bringing warming gales
that flit desiccated tumbleweeds over fences,
that fling plastic bags into the air,
that magically melt meager screes
of dirt-laden snow from beneath the trees.
But, like an impish child, the unruly wind
lightens the hearts of winter-weary pedestrians,
who clutch their hats, endure the dancing grit,
knowing that spring can't be far behind.