The whistling wind blowing against our faces
The dry leaves, rushing to the ground
As if in a race
The now empty trees, dancing to an unknown tune.

The rush of the breeze
Sitting on the motorcycle
Chasing away the heat of the sun
I could almost sneeze.

Arms stretched wide
Eyes on the sky
Body floating with the dry leaves
The weightless pregnant air
To touch a drop of rain

The hallelujah stance
The waving dance
Like happy palms
Like flying leaves
Freedom we feel.

©2018 Busola S. Kolade.