The winds of night play songs unknown,
  That no one has heard before,
  Each song sung once, then not again,
  Strange melodies and scores.
    When late at night, the winds begin,
   They play a music so intense,
    That folks outside can scarce abide
    Such sounds of turbulence.
    Notes shrill enough to shatter glass,
    Or deep enough to tremble earth,
    Perhaps banshees playing instruments,
    Of undetermined kind or worth.
  Loud cymbals clash at every blast
  Of the whirling, swirling winds,
  Which claim the night with a mad delight,
  No control or discipline.
    To ever changing rhythms,
    Trees dance, unchoreographed,
    They bend and sway in grotesque ways,
    Till it seems they may collapse.
   But whence the music?  Whence its source?
    Why each night a different tune?
    Why no repeats and no encores?
    And why are daytime hours immune?
    Who creates such orchestrations?
  Obviously not done by man,
      Who stands upon the podium,
  With untamed winds at his command?
    Crescendo!  More crescendo!
    Who swings that fast baton?
    Up-beat, down-beat, off-beat!
    The winds play on and on!
    Then comes first light, when all is bright,
    The air is still; the baton has dropped,
    A deafening silence to the ear,
    The music of the winds has stopped.
    The sky swept clean ... a crystal blue,
    The world now bathed in dazzling light,
   Fresh, pure air ... everywhere,
    Presented by the winds of night.
    A wonderland has now emerged,
    Majestic to the eye,
    A bounty from the winds of night,
    That played their song; then died.
    Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
    Copyright February 2010
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