Woodstock ~ Vermont, by Chandler Anderson

The Wind Bides Its Time
by Vaughn Neeld

          … The wind through the trees made a mournful noise,
          like a great giant sighing
–Agatha Christie

Golden leaves grace every maple
along the curving road.
The autumn wind has not yet found
this silent Vermont street.
Brown leaves cling to every oak
whose spreading branches shelter
a squirrel's harvest of acorns.
White fences and evergreens
along the sidewalk lead to
the village church.
All is hushed, calm,
blazing with beauty.

The wind bides its time;
the sky darkens.


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