THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

Diane Webster​

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Dust Devil Rides

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Summer, 100-degree days, 

no rain unless you count 

pointing the hose in the air 

and spraying water 

until Mom shouts, 

“Turn that water off!” 

 

Then a dust devil 

swirls into existence. 

Don’t ask how it starts, 

but run! Not away 

from the whipping winds 

but toward. We run, 

wanting to be the first inside, 

because after that, it was gone. 

 

Run! Run fast! Into the middle. 

Keep your eyes closed though. 

Wind tugs clothing. Hair 

catches dirt in tangling strands. 

Specks bounce off bare legs. 

It’s over. Like a carnival ride. 

We sprawl in the tree’s shade 

on the lawn. Searching 

for another wisp of wind.

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