Prevailing Winds

                Halfway to somewhere on the Waterville plateau
               a sprawling ranch house clings to the terrain;
              a muddled mix of stunted cedar, fir, and pine
             harbors and obscures the barn and grounds.
            The wind steals running starts of fifteen miles,
           with neither hill nor fence nor rill to hinder,
          an ancient force more fierce than the hedge.
         The trees have never been without this gale;
        their very shape conveys the blustered tale:
       each bole leans the same direction—south—
      though some might say left and others right.
     Even so the trees themselves remain unaware.
    They all just rise as straight as they are able.
   A child who comes of age in that shelterbelt,
  and never drifts beyond that shielding screen,
 might also grow aslant toward right, or left.
Nature nutures. Just so, the wind prevails.