the wind blows angry

The wind blows angry
In the lonely places
Where it is safe to rage.
Far from the city.

I hear her wailing.
And tremble.
For I wear her wrath
A threadbare cloak.

The evangelists say, the Breath of God
Is like a gentle Dove.
But to me, she’s a raven, consuming the dead.
Or a kestrel, seizing little living things in her talons
And eating them whole.

For the wind blows angry.
Keening in the night.
Giving voice to all who lament.
Whose hopes huddle in shadows.
These alone she comforts.

For the wind blows angry.