The wind blows wild and free.
In its darkest hour, it howls for me.
It jet streams across the night sky,
leaving no trace where eagles fly.
Except cloudlike white riverlets,
semitransparent to naked eye.
It hurricanes from a mighty south.
Sucking heat from tropic’s mouth.
Ladens the air with heavy rain,
makes the fallow fertile again.
It tornadoes with a mighty furl,
a flag of destruction from to hurl.
It rides a front of powerful speed,
thunder and lightning as its steed.
It rises with the heated air,
and downdrafts to beware.
It breezes with the tropic trades,
billowing sail silently still evades.
It breathes upon the sweaty,
neck of the heat of day.
To dry the soul and blow,
the dust of time our way.
And when all is withered wry,
a draft creeps in where we lie.
Only to float upon the breeze,
a muse set free to fly with ease.
Image Courtesy NASA
War's End, the Novel
Copyright 2006 © Ronald W. Hull