North Wind in Summer

It can buckle even pines.
Dry as a fortune teller's lips
the walls know of its coming.
And it is transient,
unspeakable in places, only known
by dead leaves gathering
uplifted in some tribal dance.
The branches bend askew;
grass combs itself a different way,
brittle at the edges.
Curtains to the east of twilight
go flat against the screens.
The others billow
like skirts in a funhouse.
then the storm grumbles somewhere
far from our shoulders but resounds,
becomes the only bones in our ears.
Then the flashing, throwing our outlines
to the farthest wall.
Then our candelit faces.
The rain.