I'm a sucker for clouds; they always remind me of Constable and English landscape painting.
So, because they just stand there and let me take pictures, I have plenty of pictures of clouds; some people have said: perhaps too many. . .
A poet whose work I have loved for a long time returns again tonight with this night poem.
That scraping of iron on iron when the wind
rises, what is it? Something the wind won't
quit with, but drags back and forth.
Sometimes faint, far, then suddenly, close, just
beyond the screened door, as if someone there
squats in the dark honing his wares against
my threshold. Half steel wire, half metal wing,
nothing and anything might make this noise
of saws and rasps, a creaking and groaning
of bone-growth, or body-death, marriages of rust,
or ore abraded. Tonight, something bows
that should not bend. Something stiffens that should
slide. Something, loose and not right,
rakes or forges itself all night.
from Rose, Kindle location 318 of 848