My office window is dirty.
I see, though, that the wind blew the smoke off the trees and I can see again the hills through the haze.
In this sterile land still aching from the heat fall has hardly been noticed.
But now I can see again the trees and beyond them, the hills.

The breeze died in the afternoon and the smoke returned.
Something big must have been burning for a very long time.
In recent times life looked outward from this window,
now something dead bears my name.
In wooden tones the poem recites my thoughts and reaches out for a reader.