The wind loves to dance in the trees, long tendrils brushing against the leaves. The wind’s voice is a howl or a gentle whisper, tugging at clothes, flowers, puppies, and hats.
It creates a whistle that hurries around tall buildings, impatient and busy, as though it has somewhere to go. We are not sure where it is headed.
Wandering, restless, and bold, it sweeps plastic bags that dance like ghosts at intersections during rush hour.
The wind carries air from distant places, far-off lands, ancient history, and secrets—here one minute, gone the next.
Georgia
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