The Wind Storm by Jason Fisk

The gale galloped over

the exposed spine of the earth

like a stampede of wild bison

It raked across the forested hills

and blew the bare trees down

like a comb taming wild hair

Trees prostrated over

rain-drenched dirt

The gust was so strong

I had to turn away to gulp air

and I saw her rooted there

A smile flitted from her face

and I saw a breath of happiness

fall from her mouth

and it hung in the air for a moment

and then blew away tumbling

tumbling tumbling over and over

And she smiled at a spirit man

sitting on great-lake rocks

flying seagulls from his fingertips

like kites to the heavens

or upside-down marionettes

dancing in the sky straining

against the subjugator’s strings

longing to break free

And there is no freedom

without disobedience

and there is no solace

with insubordination

and to be able to live

with discomfort

is a gift from chaos

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Jason Fisk lives and writes in the suburbs of Chicago. He has worked in a psychiatric unit, labored in a cabinet factory, and mixed cement for a bricklayer. He was born in Ohio, raised in Minnesota, and has spent the last 25 years in the Chicago area.