Except for when it soughs,
Or whispers as you lie in your hammock,
Looking up at tree boughs,
It whistles when it catches something right,
Like it wants you to know,
It once was air not doing anything,
But always around to witness your woe,
Carrying your words across empty space,
As you try to connect,
Vibrating ear drums, then filling their lungs,
While you're filled with expect.
What will you hear,
When the air travels back?
Will your mind howl, whistle, whisper or sough,
Or simply wish you'd ne'er taken that tack?