When this feisty wind blows, how is it?
Will our bonds fall? Our stays loosen?
Will our breath slow? Our fists open?
For sure, our bonds will not fall, nor stays loosen,
nor our breath will slow, nor fists will open.
We must pitch our tent then, tied and tethered?
We must build our base then, trussed and trammelled?
Ah, but unpinioned thought will out and grasp the gale,
shaking the land-lashed by the ears,
unleashing us, in all honesty, blow by whipping blow.