MUSIC OF THE WINDS OF NIGHT
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