Rush.
Dirt wind.
The pitter-patter.
Clouds sound like dust...
Or do they sound like gray rain?
Slight beige cast ahead, above, and to world's end.
Such a tumultuous realm.
Green leaves dotting the trees like drunkards. They beg up for a drink. And slur in the breeze.
Thunder, rumble of a Royal Enfield, somewhere by the sun or moon;
Somewhere by the source of dust, gale, or gray and pale rain....
Rush.
Dirt wind.
The pitter-patter.
Clouds sound like indecision.
A slight calm-down is cast ahead,
Above,
And to world's end.