Wind dances,

Shooing tumbleweeds

Along the narrow, moonlit lane

Toward the open fields.

The tumbles roll and bounce

And come to rest against a fence

Where they can watch sun rise

Upon the distant hills,

Rusting in the autumn frost.

Wind sings

Of myth and migration,

Cycles and seasons.

Whoops and lifts the tumbles,

Drives them on beyond the barrier

To mix with leaves of glowing gold

From annual alchemy.

Wind pauses

To catch its breath,

Leaving weeds tumble-less in a heap

But rust and alchemy go on.

by Nan C Ballard