Stunted trees

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.

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