WRITING: Wind

The wind is in a jealous roar tonight, scraping at the earth with quick blue fingers to find a grip, a place to settle in.  Raising swipes of cold crisp snowflakes from their layered sleep, his fury leaves a swirling trail of confusion as he passes through.  Despising trees that sturdy stand, their brittle branches breaking in his grasp even as they reach out in offering hands of hope. He desperately catches, clings in futile attempt to keep himself from blowing away.  All he wants is home, like earth and fire, but bound by his own nature, cursed to travel like a gypsy round the world with all that he can carry for a while, and round again, and evermore.