Windy Hills
The sun does beam
Over many a quick stream
That run into valleys flourishing with floral
Where the wind howls with seemingly no morals
It lashes out it's rage against swaying, tall trees
High doe they stand, and far doe they see
Rain falls light
Unless cursed with the winds' might
But on hot, Summers' eves
Does the wind blow little but leaves
Cooling and soothing
Still ever moving
Far is it's reach
From hill top to sandy beach
Carrying birds to and frow
Ever discouraging the hunters' bow
It is a thing of love, and a thing of hate
In any matter it is a thing of great debate
The air it fills
But never as greatly as the valleys' windy hills
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