By: Ann Christine Tabaka

The wind is a restless lover,
ever on the move.
The wind is a jealous lover,
claiming all within its path.

The wind is an angry lover,
bellowing like a runaway freight train
as it races through the trees,
bending them with its mighty breath,
they shake in fear.

A loud crack like a rifle shot
echoes through the night.
The earth quakes
as another mighty giant meets its doom.

The hill is littered with corpses
from former wars with the gale,
like so many fallen soldiers that
met the unforgiving force.

Alone and frightened
I huddle and pray
that the gods spare me,
as the thunderous chorus
continues through the night.

Morning once more,
the wind is now a gentle lover,
as it caresses me
with its soft warm breeze.