A Windy Night

A cowered form hugs its head
to protect from impending debris.
Pitch-black, none of it can be seen
only heard and felt as the broken air vibrates and whirrs past eardrums.
Knelt down next to flowers,
which were stirred with a knee,
but couldn’t know it
due to the aforementioned blackness.
And the flowers, with their heads bent down in synchrony, too,
As if their crowns, growing heavy as they do,
tested stems’ tensile strength
to the point of snapping.
So these brightless suns dangled and quick-whipped with the wind
as did the limbs of trees;
although to a lesser degree,  their sounds were all the more hectic,
nature’s undulated static;
their unseen leaves sung enough of a picture
for their hearer to be afraid,
again there, in the night,
with no white-scarred sky to emit
and no yellow moon to reflect any light whatsoever.
It was stupidly dark.
Made moreso (stupidly) by the nips and pelts of passersby,
even less aware of whom they were impacting
than the impactee, being formerly inanimate themselves.
And it was stupidly cold,
such that one could not know whether it was a bit of bark-mulch
that the gusts just threw
or if it was Jack Frost, and the unfriendly way he bites, that caused
more stinging on the right thigh.
It was probably both.

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