turning back the sheet of sky

the wind is opening its westward eye

searching for a place to live

proving its worth,

the rhythm is rising

riding high.

 

Fondling the naked trees

this uncontrollable wraith will tease

the curmudgeonly old and make them shiver

and scuttle away,

to be overtaken

with a moan and a cry.

 

A squirrel turns its wary head

on a thought that hangs like drifting thread

as the wind mounts the back of a breeze

that succumbs,

the note is rising

subtle and sly

 

and upon a sliver of balding hill

eager with life and a restless thrill

small boys hold so very tightly

to fly their kites

like skeletons dancing

riding high.