“Wind,” Friend, Mar. 1982, 33
Though I have been in bed for hours,
I hear the wind still blowing.
It whispers to my windowpane
just where it plans on going.
It runs upon the roof awhile
and jostles all the trees awake.
It dances through the garden then
and gives the fence a good hard shake.
It rattles at the front door
and whistles as it races
Down the street, over the bridge,
and then to far-off places.