In the glistening of Spring
young winds are born,
hatchling mouth gaping
for frozen bits of thermal carrion,
gleaning what nourishment they can
from the keening of last winter’s gales.

Summertime zephyrs are on their own,
casting themselves in currents of warmth,
deciding from moment to moment 
whether they will caress or sting.
They move as they must
for only those most fit
may sail forward into Fall.

Late autumn gales dance in glee,
plucking the trees for adornments
to dress themselves, pushing
the dead scales of summer
through wild ranges
to line west facing cliffs
in hopes of spawning anew.

And in the depths of winter’s bite
they prance in waxing and waning strength,
mating with abandon,
showcasing the power of vernal rage,
cradling each other’s breezes
in the glacial nooks of high rocks,
Scattering truth in their wake,
waiting for Spring.

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