In the Forest

I love to hear the wind come up in the forest. There is something special about the sound, especially since I grew up on the plains where the wind is a constant presence.



In the Forest


a boreal blow rumbles into a rush
from deep within its chest

the sighs of wood sprites
echo through firs on fitful drafts

and murmurs emerge from breezes
before birch leaves think to ripple.

Nuances of wind
            rustle through timberlands,

remain a mystery to its prairie sib
     who whistles but one tune
at two tempos: moderato or presto.

A zephyr, a mistral, a trumpet
without a mute playing on an open stage
                       from Texas to the Dakotas.

But the tenor of wildwood storms
sounds increasingly like those found

on the plains,
and those on the plains now occur
more frequently with the fortissimo

of musicians on a high
          supplied by Mother Nature
                                     and courtesy of us.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor