After the rush of rain passes

The mud-brown waters roil about

In confusion,

Tossing driftwood around

In effort to fight

Against its impotence.

 

A harsh northern wind

Gales through the park,

Trees waver in the wind.

Leaves whipping about.

But the tree endures,

Steadfast in its place.

On the shore,

Perching on a rock,

I face into the wind,

Feeling its force move around me,

Its chilled anger spoken for.

 

Even the clouds high above

In there palace in the sky

Rush quickly past.

Hoping to evade the wind’s ire.

 

But alone I remain

Facing up to the wind,

Absorbing its fury,

Observing its magnificence,

Wondering when its last words will come.