This wind, though violent, Should not be thought malevolent; It does what winds by nature do. It does not intend to roil the dust; It has no plan to push a churning wall Of Kansas soil against our Texas town, Blocking the sun, inventing unnatural noonday night. It only does what such winds do: It pushes forth a broad front,

Piercing cold under rising heat. It’s the dust! It's the dust, not this chilly wind. Had that dust not lain so loose on the ground, This wind would be clear.

Yes, a shame that crops uproot and chickens choke, But don’t imagine a mind behind this wind. There is no heart filled with hate To cause Miss Slocum to suffocate In the swelling specter’s thin embrace; It merely does what such winds do. It heaves and moans till it goes limp, And then rolls over, gasps, and dies. Then the wind is out of her hair. It's not this wind; it's the dust

That hangs for days.

And we? We do what folks who live here do When the dust covers them As the dust is certain to.

But the wind? This

wind is clear.

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