High On The Wind

High above the naked forest
canopy a raven hoists a lift
on the wild wind, appearing
suspended in place, enjoying
its defiance of gravity with no
need to propel itself flapping
wings, buoyed along, a guest
of Aeolus. Tree tops sway in
an accommodating trance of
flexible preservation, bypassing
the fate of a stiff old pine 
venerable in height, girth and
luxuriance of needles, now
splayed ignominiously on the
forest floor, the sad destiny of
a proud fallen giant, its snag
still reaching appealingly to
the cloud-shuttling bruised sky.
Wheezing hoarsely through
the forest, the wind probes
other vulnerabilities, ripping a
poplar from its tenacious 
mooring; a cowering stand of
slender birches from their
insecure perch within spring's
damp soil. The raven, revelling
in its perch on the shoulder of
the wind, sends down its own
hoarse call of homage to
nature's rabid wrecking ball.