A Windy Afternoon

The trees sway
As the wind grabs the tips of their fingers
And pulls them in her direction.
They hold their place,
Their fingers swaying in the air like tiny waves
lapping against muddied rocks.
The sparrows complain,
Against the bitterness of the wind.
Their wings collide against her tresses,
Preventing them from reaching their nest
and settling down.
But my eyes fall on our pigeons,
Sitting outside their coop,
Sunbathing.
It somehow makes me feel at peace.

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