Roger Singer

The wind lightened my sleep into awake.

Its voice slapped branches onto my

window, scratching at me to get up.

A lazy sun gathered a rising strength

in the background with blue and

crimson clouds, suggesting rain.

Leaves brushed into thousands of sounds;

music of rubbing and snapping,

an orchestra of nature calling.

Window edges rattled in rebellion

for moving. Gusting armies of angry air

attacked without resistance;

without equal, the wind passed

when finished.