The Wind

Over the hills, a calm wind blows.

Specks of dust, they dance a bit,

And then settle down as the gust leaves.

What difference did it make, nothing shows.

Down the vale, it slowly travels,

Scattering dry leaves in its wake.

A tree here, a tree there, mildly shudder,

They can’t be bothered to actually shake.

Next, come blades of yellow grass,

Lunging like hungry kids at the breeze.

They weaken the wind, but let it pass,

And then go quiet once again.

For miles downhill, the wind blows,

It erodes, flusters and whistles about.

It leaves no trail, no special mark,

This wind, the hillside could have done without.

There’s a town at the hill’s foot,

There’s a road that runs along it.

And on that road stands a little girl,

Who feels the cold brush of the wind.

On her face appears the tiniest of smiles;

The wind has travelled a thousand miles.