The Wind

the wind rides in like a train
from the west, through Nederland,
down Boulder Canyon and right
into town.
The clickety-clack of the rails
crescendos up until that moment when
the train barrels into my house head-on.
The beams shudder and creak, outside,
wind chimes frantically
clang against each other,
small stones ping in staccato
symphonies against the windows.
Tonight I will sleep on the east side
of the house, and dream of witches
on broomsticks and ruby red slippers.