Wind

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,

now speak

move,

dance.

Wind