The breathe of the wind,
stirs the feelings long hidden,
that must be breathed in.
The lone rain drop fell,
falling through the misty clouds,
to land on a leaf.
The voice calling out,
can summon a reaction,
or can be ignored.
The ant is busy,
with its searching for the team;
what a team they are.
The clouds feel the sun,
it can lift them up or worse,
it will thin them out.
The game is over,
and the die lie unmoving,
the pieces stand still.
Mister Badger’s gone,
I saw him beside the road,
and he didn’t move.
