wind/first prose poem

I greet the gray. Unconscious of my imposition on wooden planks, I press. The mists have settled, cooling unseasoned skin. Thunderous shouts is the stillness of tired afternoons. All eyes on a single cow, unaware and unimportant. A mere presence. The same occupier as all the beating hearts. Howling cries plunder the day. Broken voices and confidences. The treasure is lost and hides nowhere. A death. A reach. Impossibly cold smoke billows above my head--wherefore came such a prize to my senses? The gold has not yet split the sky and cannot rend stitch from stitch. But grace is not gone from the mounds in the distance. The ebbing and flowing of tides in celestial homes are lucid in ways that fall between the hills. It touches my eyelashes and sways them, hastening a rush of hot tears. I do not - cannot - wear the cloak of day. I throw my arms upward, scream at my wickedness and bless what I am not. Muscular windows made of wind will not break, and so I sit.