But maybe someday they will be bursting with color, instead of looking bleak. The wind moves though the trees like a grandma weaves a rug. The smell of the trees is like freshly cut grass. The wind moves the swaying trees. The weather station twirls around.
Raindrops fall as a cold breeze blows.
My paper rattles. The grass moves. My hair is blown. The air smells like rain. Wind helps birds fly.