I think about winds, about trees dancing and swaying, bowing in obedience to the imperious wind. The windows are gliding noisily, pages of books flipping, and drawn curtains rising and falling.
Yes, the tides are changing, clouds are gathering, like cotton soaked with dye, they are pregnant with rain. For silver linings there are trepidations, for hope there is fear, and for every little child readying his kite there is a storm coming to lift and toss both him and it.
The storm is raging, now there is pressure pushing us to the extreme, pushing us to realms of no moderation, to realms where there are no middle grounds, where it's either hot or cold, and to realms where every one is a beast; beasts of burden and beasts of no nation.
You hear whistles as the wind slits through the cracks, they talk of hyper liberalism, they talk of accepting everyone, everything, and of being in the spirit of correctness; hug all men and offend no man.
But miles up in the air I am the eagle soaring, riding the wind. I am the main event, the mega match, and the game, standing up to all winds and bowing to none. I feed and nest on mountains, a realm where there are no swaying trees or flying paper kites, jerking doors and windows or drawn curtains rising and falling, where there is nothing that talks of weakness or compromise.
Constitutions may change, others may flinch, but I ain't giving in, not giving up I will keep flying above this depraved world, the cascades, and defying this defiling gravity, while the wind blows I will not be tossed, I will soar, and before I perch I will hover. A rebel; I will keep fighting, and I will be a soldier till the war is won.
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