Fresh Air

There’s a steel shine on the green
Thrown by the pines in bright sun.

The trees of all kinds make sounds
When waves of air blow through them,

And those sounds get called the sound
Of the wind. The pines thus get

The wind knocked out of them, but
The trucks that blow down the road,

The trucks big and loud as boats,
The trucks that roar through the pines,

That, like boats, stir their own wakes,
Their loud wind that then trails them,

Wind’s what they make. So wind is
What some churn and some lives bear,

And it’s life that bears that makes
Fresh air, ripped from it in waves.