Wind rushing,
A mighty roar,
But silent as the grave.

No sound itself,
No sight itself,
Only movement.

But Aspen leaves,
And Aspen groves,
Moving, rustling,
Whispering, talking.

Each leaf a single voice,
Each branch a quiet chorus,
Each tree a mighty legion.

The grove a roaring,
Rushing, soaring,
Loud yet stilling,
Calm and peace.

Constant movement,
Loud but softly,
The Aspens lull me,
To my rest.