Dismal Heights

On Dismal Heights the wind blows

and blows and gets nowhere,

encircling itself with frustration.

I often hike up here to enjoy

the whirlpool effects, the subtleties

and the rage. The excellent view

includes steeples exclaiming

a dozen villages otherwise

shielded by trees. No faith rises

to this elevation. No doubts 

resolve in the vapors that clot

the bare peaks at dusk when

the last straggling hikers descend.

I always arrive around noon,

that neutral moment when feelings

ebb and quarrels patch themselves

over coffee cups and sandwiches.

Or so I hope. The day tilts toward

the nether regions where skeptics

write memos intended to wound.

From Dismal Heights I detect

adulteries plotting and shoplifters

grinning over their paltry goods.

I won’t tell anyone I’ve seen them,

but whiffs of their essence taint

even the angry winds of the heights,

which otherwise owe us nothing.