Originally written as a comment, a bit of a drift of sorts (about the wind) over on Latoya’s blog “It’s Crazy in Here”. So spent a little time today exploring what I wrote a little more, and develop it further as prose/poem in terms of stealth weather.
Guerrilla drifts the winds in stealth, between the emerald words, these kin to lines they run ink their rivers, through the shallows deep upon each page, curling at the earth pressed edges, sharing beneath each branches approach, birds of paradise, inked in words of colour, Guerrilla drifts the wind in stealth, rough and tough between the tundra’s mountain fringes, searching as a forest waits. It’s always there, but one will not notice it to touch until face to face upon the path , alone the stranger to catch unaware till in the moment. As often you’ll hear, listen to the wind in the forest, high above, or at some distance between the tree ferns, and undergrowth. To touch it, the wind in a forest, here is when everything around is most alive, one can hear its cousin, water, coursing through her veins, coursing through the forest, as if spoken ink upon a page’s every whisper..