Now on the brink of afternoon, the wind
out of the far west is due to arrive
from the crash of waves bringing a taste of salt,
a hint of wet sea sand.

Leaving the coast, this welcome wind
careens over the shoreline cities
heading for the hills and canyons,
turning the cottonwood leaves inside out,
puzzling the rare cloud on its way to the sunset.

All this, a prelude, an evening canticle, the heart sings
after a hot day, to the punctual wind from the ocean,
enveloping us in its great cloak of air,
playing with the birds, teasing us into poems.

Text copyright © 2000 Virginia Hamilton Adair;
used with permission of the Estate of V. H. Adair; Kappa Waugh, literary executor