rarely do we sit and listen
for the trees to applaud as the wind passes
they celebrate the ancient breath
even their birds must rest upon its stretches.
those trees, with their ancient ears, have learned
the art of waiting,
the act of stopping,
the awe of slowing.
for it is there, that the wings of the wind
coddle them with ancient plumes,
shadowed, and consumed.
yet it whispers and dry braches,