Rush of Wind

by A. L. O'Prunty

Rush of Wind
When the wind comes sweeping down the vale

Russling leaf and limb 

Swirling about the filed of flowers

And wheat tops tall and thin,

I often stand in awe of intangible touch

The wind I cannot see

But how it seems to rush
The sleepy little vale seems to come alive

As the wind keeps rushing

An impression of color sweeps by,

And as a moving canvas

The colors bleed and blend;

A moving Monet, copied by the wind.
O’Prunty ©



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