Until out of breath,
night winds bend unlit trees.
Pines reach the summit of their stretch,
pause
and return to rest.
In the late darkness,
a somber whistle navigates the mountains.
Tired whispers pass through shadowed gaps.
The somnambulating gusts are disoriented.
The winds fumble with gossip –
brushing through the crowd
it slanders.
The sky lightens.
Embarrassed saplings maintain composure.
Airs calm
and the trees refuse to whisper
during the day.
By: Taylor Young