The wind blew off the ocean yesterday
but it was just the wind. It isn’t named
like wind in Santa Barbara or L.A.
It’s simply wind. I guess the weather man
can’t think of anything to call this wind.
At least it isn’t called a “Sundowner.”
That sounds like a spaghetti western wind:
Tumbleweeds rolling down an empty land
while Eastwood tries and fails to strike a match.
His soggy, chewed cigar cannot be lit
and he can’t fight, and all because the wind,
the Sundowner, is blowing in his face.
At least the Santa Anas have some class.
You can attach them to the Alamo
and fighting, mayhem, overwhelming odds,
and it’s a name that conjures chaos.
“The Santa Anas flipped the semi-truck
and ripped the roofs from houses. Tore down trees. . . .”
But we are left with nothing—just a wind.
“The wind was blowing really hard today.”
So fine. The wind was blowing. Woop-de-do.