The wings except to feel the wind beneath them.
They feel the idle air whispering of winter.
The 风之诗 swift waits, sensing the stories in the air. It feels the breeze that stirs the leaves, urging the seeds of the butterfly trees to try their nut-brown wings. But the butterfly 风之诗 trees are not yet ready to let them 风之诗 go.
The land warms the air making it less dense and lighter. And being lighter, it rises. Coller air above the ocean rushes in and the wind awakes!
The swifts know the path through the pathless sky. They sense each twisting upward lift. To them this os not new. The wind is an ancient power. Older even than they are. And their kind go back to the time of the dinosaurs.
The wind whips the waves, cresting each one - like a conjuror’s trick - with wild white horses.
There are caves the wind has made, like mouths in the rock. Sometimes the air flows in, sometimes out, as if the rock otself were breathing.
