Don Thompson



The wind has parked here with me under eucalyptus trees, maybe just to rest on its long journey south or like me (and why not suppose so?) to think about where it’s been and where it’s going.

I’m staying here, content to live close to this mature grove with high branches interwoven and the bare ground too shaded for even weeds to grow.  The aroma’s sufficiently exotic for me, evocative of far places.

But the wind will make LA by nightfall.  Cabo San Lucas at sunrise when the hardcore drinkers are closing the bars.  Only a stubborn wisp will remain to slip across Playa de los Muertos and keep moving somehow.

Maybe as far south as Costa Rica before it finally dies, its last breath fascinating a hummingbird—so sensitive it can pick up the faintest, almost imaginary hint of eucalyptus.





Don Thompson has been publishing poetry for over fifty years, including a dozen or so books and chapbooks.  For more info and links to publishers, visit his website at