FOR CONFIRMATION
Wind out of the south,
the arm points up canyon,
my father’s weatherman.
He traces the range of peaks
that will bring rain, explains
the speed of blurring blades
beside Roy Lee’s corrals
before the flat was packed
inside the dam, before the flood
of fifty-five, before I could read.
Insistent, I hear it push
through trees in the saddle,
out of the south and into my face
stirring leaves at my feet – yet
I still wish the windmill back.