The Howling Wind

The wind ahead is like a howling dog

Chanting to the silvery moon in the sky

Brushing off whispering trees in his cry

That giant dog moans to the ashen rock

After staring at the grey moon he moves

Whilst pushing light materials away

Sweeping the land using paws night and day

Like a broom lifting particles of dust

The air current was a living canine

Stopping and again looking at the moon

In a howling pose he begins his tune

For the night an audition he performs

And when the daylight chases the dark light

He sits at dawn as watchful as an owl

Getting weak and no longer wants to howl

Taking a rest with head between his paws