Stark Weather

William Trowbridge

On the Great Plains in March,

the wind blows for days.

Gutter pipes vibrate, shingles flap;

things begin to come loose.

Once they found old Miss Purdy

wandering at midnight on U.S. 40,

her dainty-laced nightgown billowing

over her spindly, blue-gray thighs.

It took three deputies to hold her down

till the doctor arrived.

On the Great Plains in March

the dry elm scrapes

at an upstairs window,

dust devils swirl and disperse

across the wide, empty fields,

and a pistol shot sounds

no louder than a screen door

slapping on a porch.