Homesick

I want mountains for
that sound where wind follows a line
down a canyon wall, threading through huge boulders
drawing a clean breath and blowing
whoooosh, in a gust slap on my cold face.

Then, as I turn in the blast of carried dust and grit
 the wind will blow past, twirling strands of hair,
imprint my jacket covered shoulder
and glide on, mischievious,
 flapping the frost limp leaves
of the dull green scrub scattered on a
mountainside boulder field.

I want that wind,
with the cold, wild smell of late Fall.
That smell, with snow a few days
or even a few weeks, behind it.
I will know then, that its over.
There is no warm left only
snow and reflected heat.