It twists and bends, a lively dance of so many different colors unseen to the human eye under any sort of magnification. Something I will never see but I feel every day. It's a haunting melody, a cry of pain sent into the world in and out of green swords, against tempestuous mirrors of reflection, against my flesh, flush with the chill or warmth it provides. It whispers in my ear a secret of rain, of winter with it's oncoming snow. It screams of storms, rampaging across the sky like a herd of horses, their mains dark, their eyes a silver that glows, their whinnying the thunder that fills the sky. And it howls like a lonely ghost as it creeps up across the rippling land of emerald like a thing possessed, looking for something it will never find. It drifts softly, endearingly evesdropping and gossiping of new lovers among the tender rose petals in first bloom. It blankets, cocoons and passes ageless while we , ourselves age. We rise and fall to it, bowing and bowed by it's magnificence. We are merely the subject and it the king. It is the wind and I . . . I am nothing, only a plaything for it's whims.