On a High Storm Wind

The wind is whirring, world of whirling
Filling the forest with the whining of foals
The pines ride the gale stiffly, stubborn steeds
Needles nay as the breeze nears its height
The spruces sway rashly, swing swarthily in their manes
Whinnying like waves breaking on a wet, weathered beach
The bright birches are boulder, turn stiff trunks to the breeze
White torsos bend, branches buckle and chafe
A chilled chatter charges the angry air

The woods are roaring, world of water
Falling rivers reach deep ravines
Their crash cracks the air, fills every crevice
Of the worn rock won by the wind’s ancient war
The gale is no guest here with her gusty entries
Neither welcome, nor stranger, wily white witch
Flight of fairies, fierce trampling troll
A whimpering, a whine, a wild scarlet scream
A traveling troubadour, trumpeter of seasons
A singer of lullabies, a siren sounding high

The forest is heaving, fierce with horse hooves
The foals flail and fall away roaring
Whirled away, west of the world
Whinnying, whining on a high storm wind


—Eric Nelson