She lifts night birds, She utters words. Sailors play cards Or grunt or smoke. In barns, lambs cry. She gallops by And twists the oak. Her breath fogs panes.
Clouds fly, seas swell.
The moon is still. Beyond the hill, She plays a bell. A roundabout way, I confess, of explaining that wind possesses musical talent. But the wind's most telling characteristic might be its partiality to the paradoxical.