Santa Ana

They arrive howling from the east,

a fierce breath of desert,

sweeping through canyons,

where silence reigns otherwise.

These winds, a rude visitor

knocking over chairs outside,

tossing newspapers skyward,

scattering thoughts like leaves.

Their dry whispers in the trees,

a conversation with ghosts,

stirring old letters asleep

in the bottom drawer's darkness.

Dogs sense it first, the shift,

a nervousness in their paws,

the way the light tightens up

as if on the brink of revelation.

The air, electrified, hums

with secrets carried westward.

Dust storms visions of yesterday,

break over suburbia's edge.

These are the winds, reminding,

that no calm is forever,

that change is always nearby,

just beyond the next ridge.