Nursery of Winds

In the glistening of Spring young winds are born, hatchling mouth gaping for frozen bits of thermal carrion, gleaning what nourishment they can from the keening of last winter’s gales. Summertime zephyrs are on their own, casting themselves in currents of warmth, deciding from moment to moment whether they will caress or sting. They move as they must for only those most fit may sail forward into Fall. Late autumn gales dance in glee, plucking the trees for adornments to dress themselves, pushing the dead scales of summer through wild ranges to line west facing cliffs in hopes of spawning anew. And in the depths of winter’s bite they prance in waxing and waning strength, mating with abandon, showcasing the power of vernal rage, cradling each other’s breezes in the glacial nooks of high rocks, Scattering truth in their wake, waiting for Spring.