The night's black scowl screeched in my ears.
The wind would never stop,
It seemed.
Slowly I crept toward the old Birch tree,
Its wretched shroud peeling from the sharp teeth of the wind's scream.
The same scowl that made me feel,
Free.
The tree,
Being ripped, torn, diminished,
The force too powerful.
To me,
Released, the wind pushing me ever so lightly
The sound of yelling mysteries,
The crunch of leaves beneath my feet,
My bewilderment.