Santana Wind by Jeanne Scroggs

Beneath the orange, pregnant moon a devil
twitches, waking.  He starts the leaves upon
the ground to walking, trundling off the curb,
fighting, scratching among themselves to gain
the lead.  Next he takes disgruntled trees to
task who complain in bursts with angry
gestures.  Now dogs and cats go howling as trashcans
dance from foot to foot but cannot flee
and they shiver in tinny cries as
curtains open along the street and ovals
of pinched faces peer from quaking panes,
fully knowing the doom has come, future’s
dark, hot breath.  Even Protestants kneel, for the
earth does move in this wind’s wake, plates scrape
below pavement, moaning to start their work
of pulling life into chasms and evil
is free to roam, but nothing else; it slinks
down alleys and rushes, hot to win a
race of car lot banners tilting at sky.


Jeanne Scroggs is a poet, essayist, and artist currently residing in Winterset, IA with her husband Rich. She can be reached at rscroggs@q.com