Wind

The air, swift.
Running through the earth’s hair, the grass.
Whispering the names of the trees, of the rock.
The air, rapid.
Falling with the rain, rising with the heat.
Like a balloon in a great storm.
The air, chaos.
Sloshing in the bowl we call sky.
Never resting, never leaving.
The air, changing.
We call wind.
Swift rapid chaos.
May slow.
But will never stop, not until nonexistence.

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