for thoughts

a short, as yet unfinished descriptive peice

lifting winds over tides of white, the echo of crashing drenching the standing black stone

 the blunt cold blows over the stormy blue deep, up and over the crinkled face of cracks and gulls.

It travels through the long golden haze of fields in harvest twirling and playing with loose regard.

it whistles down roads and roars over hills, never seeming to stop and see nor pass and look,

on long days that it's here you can see it everywhere. bending arms of green covered trees,

parting waves of dusty roads and twirling blades of front porch toys.

The winds bring taste of seasons upon us,

they carry the smells of fresh mowed grass, cut hay and crisp snow.

Author's Note

please let me know what you think of my style, or anything