The Hurricane / Baker Brownell

The Hurricane


The wind soured into night. Acid of a narrow rain Pitted the sentries’ paces With spits of cold. The wind grew in hoarse breaths With the night’s age, Until the night was wind, And darkness spouted on the prone earth From the West’s nozzle. Wind and night, roaring Like mated beasts, Pressed huge bodies On the bulging walls Of tied Sibley tents. One by one the double-headed pegs Pulled with a souseling kiss From the rain-weak earth. A rope snapped; a wall flap Jumped; the tent heaved, Bulged upward With scared awkwardness, And fell on a broken tripod. The wind, night, rain, With huge onwardness, West, south, east, north, poured itself Bitterly on the flat earth. Three Nature-whipped sentries, Tied into their ponchos, Pried through the heaving night Like tired swimmers.