We thought it was just on the coast
where winds gusted so fiercely that

we were pushed over a bit by them—
a gentle shove, not like that of a bully,

but of someone wanting to get our
attention. But as we drove inland

from the seaside to our valley home
town, we saw trees shimmying

and rock’n’rolling to tunes we
could not hear. And when we

spilled out into our yards
littered with downed sycamore

branches separated too early
in the season from their hosts,

leaves still green and growing, we
felt ourselves stop and again mourn

the too-soon gone. Who may have
departed on a timetable arranged

before they were born. Who may
have understood that theirs was

a limited-time-only offer. Who may,
unlike us, feel fine with the way

things ended, snapped off in a mighty
gust, sailing through the blustery,

landing in a soft green grass heap,
perhaps with others like them, thinking,

“Wow, what a ride! What a
marvelous adventure that was!”