Their laughter lifts the wind to its task,

weaving, guiding,
over limb, bough, wingtip,
drawing with invisible ribbons
golden caresses through bent reeds.

It licks at the trembling water’s skin,
hisses a path
through the tall audience of corn,
seeks solemn tones through wizened boards
in the old farmhouse.

They listen, nestled amongst buttresses
of a maternal sheltering oak,
tying golden whispered tethers
between them
in thin knots of confidence.

Small curious fingers trace stories
along the spines of autumnal leaves,
flaxen threads
illuminating a topography
more complex than their palms.

Tomorrow they may crumble,
grow rich,
pungent and fertile,
or wisp away in fragments
to far reaches and distant lands.

Today, they are rich stained glass
in a vast cathedral
of wind and wood,
lifted by laughter,
glorified by the sun.

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