Just over the six-five wooden fence and some thirty feet beyond, a palm tree stands tall, her crown in its entirety peeking out and over, shag haircut a dark green. Neighboring lights keep her visible at night, create a double exposure of stark silhouette and a glowing, outlined aura. And on nights when a storm has just missed New Orleans, distracted by other places to lay waste, you can witness the influence.

Whenever the wind blows west, she wraps herself in affection. In love, careening with a sense of her own existence.

Southbound breeze brings coercion. A rustle, somewhat softer, that suggests submission. Petioles bent. Leaves horizontal, green razors like pinstripes against the stars pointing outwards, splayed. Taking dictation, orders, going along with it, momentary blindfold.

The east winds are mild, and it makes for the slightest tilt. Curiosity. Conclusion. Expecting what might come next, or when the clouds might change directions.

North isn’t something she’s particularly fond of. Could be habit, something in the roots. Memories imbedded in scars along the trunk, wearing her rings on the outside. You can see her leaning into it. Resistance for what’s planned, a secret agenda to bend against the weather.

When they all blow together it signals a chaotic revival, all parts moving in such agreement that her undulations are the ones creating the winds. To someone far away, in several days, this illusion is as strict as the certain truth.

And my influence is laughable. I watch, passively observe, keep an eye, both eyes trained, because she moves. And when the winds change direction, the only assurance I have is that this is her. Wild palm with an ever-shifting, spiraling lifeline that runs along petiole to leaf sheath, all along the stem, and who would have guessed such a pattern would be printed against the mute affections of a windswept midnight friend.

###

in print:

Amazon.com

or for fucking free in digital

Smashwords.com

so long and thanks for all the pish.