The Windy Woods

It's an ill wind that blows
bellowing its vile temper
through the atmosphere
sending ragged washday-grey
clouds scuttling in a grim sky
preparing to shuffle aside the
grey for bruised-black alternates
pregnant with freezing rain.
Blasting wayward birds in
flight, tardily setting southward
their course rudely off by
struggling air miles. The
wind's assault sends tree
masts swaying, clacking in
audible distress against one
another, finding no comfort
in close communion, sending long
dead branches from bared
canopies downward, probing
dessicated trunks penetrated
by disease and insect predation
punctured by woodpeckers
to topple the gentle giants
collapsing none too gently
in an agonized moan to the
forest floor, hauling along for
good measure thriving 
neighbours, creating a stricken
cemetery of wind-felled victims.