The wind moves quickly through the trees
Loose missiles sailing on the breeze
Branches bristling flush with their leaves
Some landing there upon the eaves
Some flying swiftly to the ground
Others blowing turn round and round.
Like fugitives in some mad race
Each seeking their own resting place
Gusts increasing now growing bold
Like vestiges of legends old
That leave to us our final quest
We must survive old Natures best.
Claire V. Bogdanos 