The Wind

Wind dances through the tree top
And shakes the window pane
Just when it seems he must stop
He blows back in again.

Wind is a boisterous fellow
Who likes to rant and roar
His voice a strident bellow
Outside the fast-closed door.

Wind piles the snow in high drifts
And sweeps the street with rain
He's there when ever fog lifts
And moves it in again.

Wind is a busy worker
His job is never done
He'll never be a shirker
He's having too much fun.