That Bellowing Wind

Great galloping gulps of wind
bellow through the winter-bare
tree tops. The trees weave and
heave in a wretched, clacking
danse macabre; a wracking,
pulsating appeasement of the
demonic fury, sacrificing limbs,
scattering dark scars on the
snowy forest understory.

From a sky of darkly bruised clouds,
constant belches of a furious, ranting
presence, a continual vituperative
gale of undiminished rage. Furry
smallfry cower in terror of a force
whose anger careens off the
landscape, destroys all in its path,
their frail nests, they themselves.

Only the ravens rejoice, lifting
their black presence into the ravening
blasts, like fearless children on a
carnival ride, defying adult fears.
Each fresh burst of wind engulfs the
forest in a thunderous din as of a
herd of approaching cattle outpacing
an oncoming locomotive, a fleet of
jets streaming the forest canopy.