One hundred feet overhead the trees are dancing

Their branches sing against the rise and fall of windgusts

Down below its almost calm

Spiced with the apprehension of falling branches

Then sliver winds find their way through the forest to the floor

Dancing coldslaps in the dark to me

Ascending, shadowed treewall thins out

Unfettered zephyrs chase across the hilltop

In the ragged light of squall cloud shudders

Reflecting muted misted city lights

Winds roil and blow

Creating a new hymn of change

In this tattered night


David Trudel  © 2012




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