JoeOmaha

The wind is ever present, blowing over our great plains, filling the sails of boats, a walloping caress of the largest of planes. It will cool the dogged heat, blowing from the South, Or punish you from the North, for things forgotten about. The Fall crispness brings, nostalgia for the past, When four seasons existed, a pleasure long elapsed, We resist the wind in wretched vain, as we lean to and fro, but trees are much smarter you see, by swaying with the flow.