The wispy trail of the scud crashing by
Natures street-sweeper ready to fly
The usually delicate foliage of the
Maiden Grass strikes the red-faced
Cheek like shards of glass
Leaves and small pieces of trash whip
About looking for doorways to play
A newspaper floats about on the way
To it’s next reader no doubt
The tulip remains tight lipped as her
Long stem is enslaved by the wind
Not so for the bunny who’s long
Bunny ears go with the flow
The bright yellow skirt of the woman
Dances about her knees in mayhem
The winds never die down but flit
About, in whispers, to again, at any
Given moment become the sky’s
Frisky jesters
