This rain
Seems like
A million
Heartbreaks
Crashing
Down

Somewhere in the far
Distance, a lone dog barks, and
Barks—then sheer silence.

It seems as if most people these days
Talk about the sign of the times.
It seems as if every generation
Has their own idea of what
The sign of the times really is.
For every person it is different
But we still manage to have
Some things in common that get
Passed down too.
It is up to us to define what
Our own idea of what
The sign of the times are so
That when the majority
Changes with time you
Can still define your
Own idea of what the sign of the times is with confidence.
If you don't you will end up changing with the
Whimsy of every one else instead of being strong inside.

With every breeze rattling branches scratch out a shout,
Gusts of cloud’s breath arouse the lumbering orchestra,
Wind is the baton in the invisible conductor’s hand,
Choirs of leaves rub out hymns composed of rustling joy.

T’was the woodlands softly chanted the new-born earth’s first song,
The sighs of sylvan movement hum and thrum, scrape and scruff,
Harmonizing with the gargling river’s current chorus,
Nature’s opera, now whispering, now roaring, ever most alive.

Wind whistling through mountain passes, another fair refrain,
While songbirds supplement with their master melodies,
A lullaby to rock sleepless, anxious men to reverent rest,
To teach consistent music opposite their chaotic, chronic noise.