There are men who speak of tempests but few who speak of wind. The winds that cries of torment and the breeze that speaks of spring. Hot gusts of demon's breath sharp witness sees the sighs of angels. Air that curls and stirs the dust while long thin fingers twirls and tangles.
Why are there so few musings on wind but make rain and snow cliche? By the pound are poems on nightly brooding and ill weather's passe. Wind and gale, an invisible beast long tongues that bash buildings. The curse of the East. Nature conquering mankind's fumbling.
Perhaps man need not speak of wind It's wind that speaks for man a voice upon the air it brings. Halt and listen if you can