The Wind Lens

I walk the road at midnight,
weaving a path between the pines.
Wind fights my every step,
with moist gusts blown
through the hissing trees.
Ahead, at the top of a hill,
the Basilica steeples
loom black against rushing clouds.

Wind flows down a mountain slope,
poised miles away like a wave
above street lamps and glowing windows.
Air rushes through the valley
and the city of Latrobe,
past a spinning airport beacon --
white, green, white green --
across Route 30
crawling with cars.

Gusts roar up the piney slope,
then turn and slip past
the Basilica's huge wooden doors
and face of stone.
Air spreads across the outstretched hands
of Boniface Wimmer, the founder,
frozen bronze near church.

I face his back, at the sharp meeting
of two walls, where invisible
forces find focus,
concentrating their strength
to knock me down.

I laugh, shout into the sky.
There is no worry or strife
within the twisting, rushing air.
Here, it is only me, the clouds,
and a black church.

Scott Speck
08/16/99