above Khabul

Morning brings flagged streaming eucalyptus leaves
blown and clumping ends of branches,
green swept waves tossed to greener shores,
fearsome rubbing sounds of wind
as sibilent as sand on beaches whipped.

Blue grey front marches to the north
with low hugging bath-matted clouds,
dawns pink scudding scouts race ahead
signal no work, rest day instead.

These last acres of netting can stay hunkered down
above the orchard,
this lee side of the town,
clipped, secure, taut, remaining bound
resisting storms upward pull
to spiral skyward like huge spinnakers,
or fly massive,
like Afghani kites above Khabul.

I can luxuriate a while instead
a short time longer in my bed,
let thoughts of you and what you said
maintain sweet percolation in my head.