The Windman

Someone must blow the winds outside. They are just rushing past me like a train. My clothes, hairs, flutter. The trajectories of birds have gone tangential to their intention. If I were a particle it sure would have carried me long miles by now. Floating. From one rooftop to another treetop to someone's courtyard to touching the roads. What a bliss! Creating the rustling, murmur sounds. Shaking up tintops. And setting the leaves off trees to dance to its tunes. All settled dust particles, swarm up from their resting grounds. And its time for turmoil, painting every single object with the color of dust. Nature's own rough way. It an't got any brushes. Squirrels, rabbits, snakes, cats, dogs flee off to their holes, homes. Watching, and scared. So does me. With subtle realization of nature's extravagant ways of displaying its energy, and restlessness and who knows the emotion? And its hidden reminder that nothing is permanent, I am the boss here.