sunday wasteland

the branches of trees slowly oscillated,
a soda can clattered as it tumbled
   on worn asphalt as the wind pushed it.
constant, rushing sound, like the rolling crash
   of waves upon an empty beach
as the wind stirred the land,
and i slept.
the sun was not just rising, not just setting,
and not a person had seen its light yet.
we all slept.
and when the wind drew up its mild temperance,
pulling at the corners where shadows hid,
and it ran,
stampeeding over brown fields,
taking up the brittle leaves to carry them
   high into the cloudless sky,
straining on every bare twig,
sweeping down gutters,
rushing,
and i awoke.