rough is the wind that forces
a trunk sideways from its long‑held berth,

not quick to undo what’s stood for years
yet close enough to warn me through its scrape:

we keep moving along the same worn track,
no pause in the work or the miles,

and something behind us still pushes forward,
brushing hard against these outer boards—

a shape from earlier country,
its gusts carrying what once passed through.

.