Spring 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 2 Poetry |

High Plains Weather Report: Elements of Madness in the Air

For Charlie Mehrhoff I'm getting colder as I grow older. This is the first week of August and the high today is 57 degrees. I'm rubbing my hands together to make fire. My dogs are out in the chill, howling at the noon siren. If I let it, it would sadden me that I have never seen a wolf in the wild and never will. Man has corrupted and killed everything, and now the weather has finally gone mad too. Somewhere inside the crystal clear lines of television, we lost our kind, blue skies and those amber waves of grain. Somewhere in suburban malls or maybe in the hoods of the inner cities, we lost our hopeful souls. And we've exported that loss around the entire globe. Huh? No, no, uno momento. The weather of madness was exported here centuries ago. It came with Pope-addled Spaniards who, lacking duende, killed more Indians than Hitler killed Jews ... Schicklgruber, Spaniards, wolves, and worry ... Endless, insidious, spastic worry. I'm blaming El Niño. El Niño is making me goo

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