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.