It dances, laughing gleefully to itself as it flies through valleys, mountain ranges, forests and plains. It kisses the earth and brushes the treetops with its silken fingers. It is forever swirling, rushing, blowing. It has no color, no taste, but if you listen you can hear it rustling the leaves and sending them down their slow, lazy spiral. If you look you can see it greeting the grass and flowers in song. The clouds and skies are its dearest friends, have been since time began. It sees everything and visits everybody. It is cold, and hot, depending on its mood. Some days it is angry, stinging, ripping away life and stirring up earth and water in tornadoes. Other days it is gentle, and feels like water or silk running through your fingers.
When it gets tired, it leaves. And you are left in a day without wind.