Movement of Air 
There's wildness in the air I scent too well,
The promise of a winter coming soon,
The grey on the horizon seems to swell,
Yet I can feel white fire behind the gloom.
But all my elder sisters' eyes look tired,
Like these decrepit windmills, winding down;
While every indrawn breath is then suspired,
And silence, like a quilt, has wrapped the town.
What movement of the air, what subtle breath
Did waft my new-fledged wings to this sad perch?
Did chance prevail, or some inspired jest
Of cruelly playful gods in some stone church?
Whatever else, I'll not be left to mourn -
I'll find a way to fly against the storm.