Wandering Wind wonders, “Loose leaves left?” Green’s gone, yellow saunters, Red’s crusting. Passively, Wind ponders its reapings and thefts. Once a canopy’s now’s a carpet: dreadfully dirty and dusting. Yellow considers, contemplates and fears: absorption to the soil, worms, ants, and bugs; Can no longer see the faces of his peers… Will no longer get the satisfaction of touches and hugs. Green danced through a windy maelstrom, beautiful to watch, Yellow oohed and awed her grace: eventually penetrated-ripped by Fury Hail-storm. She wisped Red, who never gave her embrace. When Wind wailed, he watched her fall. Whistling Wind didn’t defeat him in belching blasts. But the hole-ly lass looked frightened and small. In the calm of calamity, he’d join her at last. Wrinkled brown he descended to the defeated; slowly drifting and willing they touch. …So close to where she slumped seated. Would she understand that he needed her so much? They embraced around a seed, certain of their demise. In the toil for each other’s warmth, came a sprouting surprise.