It scuttles the clouds across the sky,
And they seem to protest, even as they fly.
Leaves, old papers, bits of dust
And lost, forgotten things are caught up in a mad race.

The cedar trees bend over
Bowing before God as He walks by on the wind.
Leaves hanging on the trees,
Rustle in dryness as the wind plays with them.
Their music is sweet, clear, happy.

The wind whistles hollowly,
Sadly as it runs up the valley.
The hills try to capture it
But it hurries on.

Where is it going?
This speeding, restless, tide of air?
It sings to us for awhile
Leaves behind limbs and old nests, then is gone.

And we who are left behind, fly with it in our minds,
Silently waiting for its singing return.

Jane Ellen Slone ©
Revised 9-12-08
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