a tree cannot push
against the wind, it must bend
and sway to it’s will

they herald the wind
feathering distant portents
to soften the blow

if who we are is
seen as less than a river
we will all run dry

a fallow field lies
dormant waiting for the plough
to peel back its truth

tenuous threads bind
to the dancing wind reaper
his whims will cut loose

it’s the not knowing
yet they grew stronger than our
crystal ball of fears