On days like this
The wind strips whole trees bare,
Drifts leaves in ragged piles,
Roars past roof tops,
Steals my breath when I turn my face;
And I, too, feel bare, exposed,
Stripped of town-bred thoughts,
Naked to the plains where I was born,
Nothing between me and the North Pole
But a three-wire fence in Montana,
And someone left the gate open.