The wispy trail of the scud crashes by
Natures street sweeper ready to fly
The usually graceful foliage of the
Maiden Grass
strikes the red-faced cheeks like
Shards of glass
Leaves and small pieces of trash whip
By looking for doorways in which
To play
A newspaper floats about looking for
The next reader no doubt
The tulip remains tight-lipped as her
Long stem is enslaved by the wind
Not so for the bunny whose long
Bunny ears go with the flow
The bright yellow skirt of the woman
Dances about her knees in mayhem
The winds never die down but
Float about in whispers, to again,
At any given moment become the sky’s
Frisky jesters
