Bend and cower from the wind.
Its howling is incessant.
Its winter cold all pervasive.
The mountain side Bearberry brambles
Grip tightly to the glacier scarred rocks for safety as the wind
flows in rivers of current
From the White Mountains to the sea.
It feels its way with outstretched arms
Sold and real, over a
Path that is well worn and familiar into the valleys
And river beds along the way.
The power of the wind pushes the sound of thunder ahead of it
And carries the storm clouds on its back.
It washes over the landscape
In partnership with the trees.
A force that can move them to dance,
Shake them to their roots, and love them with its allover touch.
But mountains and trees diminish the wind.
They sap its strength with their reluctance to let it go.
They want to hold on, to experience its freedom and lightness
They yearn for a chance to throw off their earthly chains and soar above the land.
But in the end, at the last, the sea remains the master.
The wind has no choice but to rush into its arms, to be consumed by the waves,
To become one with the spray, white with its foam
And downed in the crashing of the waves on the shore.