The breeze slapped against my scalp today
Reminding me that March means winds.
The flag above the village hall hung on,
Flailing in the freshening gusts, as a field
Of greens rippled and swayed to a muted music.
Shrubs were shaken awake from sunny slumbers,
And the fast gathered clouds teased from time to time
With a peek-a-boo of blue fragments.
The only kites in the sky were the red variety;
High and mighty, gliding and circling;
Hunting and calling with haunting whistles.