Windy Hills

The sun does beam Over many a quick stream That run into valleys flourishing with floral Where the wind howls with seemingly no morals It lashes out it's rage against swaying, tall trees High doe they stand, and far doe they see Rain falls light Unless cursed with the winds' might But on hot, Summers' eves Does the wind blow little but leaves Cooling and soothing Still ever moving Far is it's reach From hill top to sandy beach Carrying birds to and frow Ever discouraging the hunters' bow It is a thing of love, and a thing of hate In any matter it is a thing of great debate The air it fills But never as greatly as the valleys' windy hills