AUTISM: A POEM
. . . . . XXIII. Wind Currents at Dusk
New gusts rustle through the few
. . . . . trees that edge our backyard fence.
Their thick branches shift slowly
. . . . . in the wind with the strict rhythm
one might find in a chorus line,
. . . . . as though a whole row of dancers
had been choreographed to move
. . . . . in time with the mellow melody
of an orchestra’s tune. A gray
. . . . . haze of chimney smoke unfolds
and gently rolls over the steep
. . . . . slope of our roof. It slips across
the darkening lawn disappearing
. . . . . below, sifted by stippled patterns
of shadows in the trees. My son
. . . . . watches all through his bedroom
window, counts each black leaf,
. . . . . calculates the world around him.