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Windage The wind in these hills makes an eerie sea sound, while it mimics the groans of great oceans. Blowing wild and free as it battles with trees, has no reason nor rhyme or emotion. Starting out in the west born of Pacific un-rest, whistling eastward just south of Alaska. When it finally gets here ferrying frost with its fear; crying winters call out to Nebraska. Then through the Midwest with diminishing zest becoming a breeze in Virginia, it surely must feel as it loses its zeal like you do when the whole worlds against ya. It’s best not to fight devil winds of the night, hunker down and stay put until morning. For the coyote knows why the western wind blows, always borne with a cold winter warning. From the Oregon Coast it blows brag and blows boast, heading into the deep western canyons. Wailing frigid mistrust grows from gale into gust; the loneliest cowboy’s companion. Then onto the plains carrying arthritic pains, an ice-whip soon stinging Kentucky, but once in the south looking down in the mouth for it’s no longer feeling so plucky. Chasing weeks with its wrath leaving years in its path, stealing decades from mightiest mountain. Centuries gone in thin air the west wind doesn’t care laughing all the way through to Wisconsin. From the great western shore it begins with a roar, gaining strength while crossing Wyoming. Takes the hobo ghost trail sings their songs with a wail, so their souls will forever be roaming. I wish I could say it blows troubles away all of mine would be east of Missouri, and there they would stay for the rest of my days wouldn’t mind if the west wind came early. The wind in these hills sings the song of the surf blowing days as if waves on an ocean, like the wildest horse never follows a course, has no reason no rhyme nor emotion. |
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